


this cold heart never bleeds

by Mentalguerilla



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crossover, Experienced Sherlock, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Goths, Idiots in Love, It's For a Case, M/M, also VAMPIRES
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-06-12 21:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15349170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mentalguerilla/pseuds/Mentalguerilla
Summary: Sherlock AU set in 1987 goth London. Sherlock and John must pretend to be a couple and infiltrate the goth scene to flush out a couple of serial killers pretending to be vampires.  Oh but Sherlock has a history! Sexy times lie ahead, also  minimal descriptions of violence. Basically I just combined every trope I liked into a crossover fic that incorporated my two favorite fandoms. I'll be posting a chapter every Thursday, so stay tuned for our story to unfold. It's my first time, please be gentle! I'll post up a playlist in the notes for one of these chapters too, just in case you want to listen along.I hope you enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fic! woohoo! i won't say much about the story quite yet, but i would like to point out that john's inner monologue is bracketed because i can't figure out how to use italics in this format. please feel free to leave helpful suggestions, as to that or otherwise, but please be nice. xo

Sherlock had been acting dodgy for days. John was aware of the detective talking to himself with more frequency and agitation than was normal, though Sherlock's version of normal was anything but. He’d also been noticing Sherlock staring at him for longer periods than usual. At one point, John had even gotten so fed up that he had returned the stare with what he imagined was matching childishness and intensity, but then he was startled by the tell-tale signs of what looked like the previous night’s eyeliner smudged around Sherlock’s waterline and decided to look away before Sherlock deduced that John found that observation very... interesting.

Currently, John was sitting in his favorite chair. His tea was forgotten and cold next to him, and he was shaking his head and cursing under his breath angrily at the daily Times. Sherlock was sitting across from John, fidgeting and glaring at the paper as though it had personally offended him. Since Sherlock so often insisted that he had no time for politics and left John to his mutterings, John deduced that the object of his frustration was likely himself and not the contents of the paper. He did his best to give no indication that he noticed Sherlock's distress while he finished the article that he was reading about Margaret Thatcher’s new public policies. John’s time serving in the Falklands had given him good reason to be tetchy with the prime minister, and he often muttered at the paper, but his typical stoicism only gave way to his real opinions after a few pints at the pub. Anyone who drank with him could predict that after his fourth lager he’d be sure to brandish his favorite Borges quote about the war being like two bald men fighting over a comb. Though he was pretty sure that whatever Sherlock had to say would probably be preferable to the tripe he was reading right now, he was intent on refusing to give in to Sherlock’s churlishness. He let his mind wander from the paper and started thinking about his flatmate. John knew that Sherlock's alleged indifference to politics was a ruse, and that Sherlock agreed completely with John on the PM. Sherlock cared deeply for the network of homeless people whom he’d amassed to help him solve his crimes, and John knew that it bothered him immensely that Thatcher’s policies were killing them. Sherlock paid his network lavishly to act as spies. John had also found Sherlock helping many people in accessing medical care (now easier with John’s help), or even entering university. As such, he had a large and loyal following on the streets of London. But their numbers were growing, and despite Mycroft’s lofty insistence otherwise, everyone knew that it was Margaret Thatcher’s fault. Mycroft had tried to enlist their help in tracking down the organizers of last year’s assassination attempt. Sherlock had looked him and Mags in the eye and stated calmly that he would do it only to help the assassins complete the job next time, and to thereafter never be found. Mycroft had since stopped bothering Sherlock with government requests.

Still, John was having a difficult time ignoring Sherlock’s silent demands for his attention. He was practically vibrating with the effort of waiting as patiently as he could (though his patience was on par with a toddler on cocaine) for John to notice that he had something important to say. John finally sighed and put down his paper, giving in to his curiosity- though he was tempted to let Sherlock suffer a bit longer in retribution for last night’s chemistry fiasco that had ruined the lovely takeaway he’d been dreaming of during most of that day’s clinic duty.

“What is it, already?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat and announced, “John, we are going out tonight. You will wear the Levi’s on your bed, your military boots, and a white crew neck. Please also wear your dog tags. I’ve taken the liberty of procuring you an appropriate jacket. Your disguise will require little else. I will assist you with your hair before we leave. Be ready at eleven pm."

John eyed him warily, having really only listened to about half of what Sherlock just said, still stewing over the ruined curry. “Oh? A case then? Or are you finally taking me out?”

“Both.”

“Oh- um- Sherlock, I didn’t mean...” [Shit, John. Shut up.]

“Don’t fret, John. I neglected to mention that part of our ruse involves us being- involved.” Sherlock was wearing his most unaffected face. “I have a list of reasons prepared why this is more important than your rather erroneously adamant declarations of your heterosexuality.”

John sighed resignedly. “Not necessary. What’s the case?”

"Oh?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, almost imperceptibly. “Excellent. A rash of multiple murders has occurred in Soho over the last two months. Each was elaborately staged to resemble the work of vampires. Many of the victims were a part of the gothic subculture. Others were drawn randomly from the public at large, it seems, which led the police to believe that these events were unrelated. Until recently the police were happy to ignore the incidents which involved goths, or dismissed them as cultish mass suicides, because they assume the subculture is essentially comprised of rebel youth with death wishes and anathema to society."

“What changed? Oh, don’t start, my deductive reasoning is solid here. I’m assuming something out of the ordinary happened, and that’s why they’ve finally contacted you.”

“Indeed, one day yet you might even become one of the great minds of history.” John glared and pantomimed that he was about to leave. 

“Oh, sit down. We both know that you’re not going anywhere. But you are correct. Lestrade finally allowed someone who wasn't Anderson to examine the bodies and they pointed out the undeniable forensic similarity of the wounds found on several of the victims that they had previously declared unrelated. He has, as such, suddenly found himself unable to disregard my ‘suggestions’ that perhaps we had a serial killer, or killers more likely, on the loose in London.”

“I do know how you love a serial killer, Sherlock. But I’m not quite understanding how we get from there to ‘involved’.”

Sherlock stood up a bit taller and held his chin a tad higher, as if he was about to recite a prepared speech. “We must infiltrate the club known as Cities in Dust. I am familiar with the owner and several of the patrons. The victims were all patrons of the goth clubs in the Soho district, and while both men and women appear as victims, many of the men were homosexuals. Most resembled me in stature and appearance. In order to draw out the killers, John, I will be bait and you will be my ‘secret’ lover. It's too late and too difficult to establish a backstory that we're an 'out' couple, but we'll have an easier time explaining why we are there together if we have some sort of relationship. Clubs such as these are a place where people are able to express themselves without fear of public retribution. My public persona as a police consultant, and your frequent outbursts that you are ‘not gay’ will add believability to our ‘closeted’ relationship."

John still wasn’t sure why this was the best plan, but he’d pretty much known that he was going to agree before Sherlock even began explaining. It sounded a bit far-fetched but since it was uncharacteristic of Sherlock not to have sound reasoning behind his plans, he assumed there were some steps that Sherlock had omitted to tell him that made this cover story more soundly logical. Also, though, while he was definitely amenable, he would have to take care to downplay his eagerness to have an opportunity to pretend to be intimate with Sherlock. Sherlock was constantly critical of his poor acting ability, and seeming too authentic would definitely attract Sherlock’s notice. He realized suddenly that Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, waiting for his response. “Okay... sounds dangerous though, using yourself as bait like that.”

“That’s why I need my soldier to protect me.” Sherlock smiled, a rare vulnerable smile that John knew was only ever for him,. Though John knew that Sherlock used it from time to time as a method of manipulation, it always worked. 

John rubbed his hands on his thighs and sighed. “Okay, okay. I’d better go get the shopping done then, if we’re to be on a case for the next however long. And the washing up.”

“Be ready at eleven.”

“You said, Sherlock. And I’d remind you that your own views on punctuality are rather opportunistic. Wait- did you say- what are you going to do to my hair?”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was nearly time to go, but John was pushing the boundaries of said punctuality. He seemed to be unable to stop gaping at himself in the mirror. He turned around again, and again, slowly. He’d barely registered Sherlock’s comment earlier about buying him jeans and a jacket, but now the reality of it was wrapped around him in denim and leather and buckles and chains. Left to his own devices, he always shopped for comfort first, style second. Now though he was reconsidering his style choices. He'd spent the last ten minutes checking out his backside in the mirror as well as he could, pondering how something as simple as a different pair of jeans could perform such a transformation The tapered leather jacket hit right above his waist, definitely accentuating his- finer qualities. [Well, fuck, maybe I should let Sherlock buy all my clothes. Of course he knew my exact measurements. At the very least I’d be sure to have more luck with women if I went out like this more often. Well, at least until they met Sherlock.] He glanced at his watch, which he'd dutifully left on the nightstand since Sherlock hadn't mentioned it as part of his outfit. He nodded his head once, determined, and decided that it was now or never. He’d been listening to Sherlock crashing around downstairs for the last hour, likely undoing all the tidying he’d done today. Bracing himself for anything, he went downstairs to survey the damage, sparing one last glance at his arse in the mirror.

“Sherlock, what the hell have you been-” John stopped mid-stair. “O- oh”

“John, I am unable to lace this corset alone. I require your assistance.”

John found himself suddenly unable to remember how any his limbs worked. He stood motionless, soaking in the vision of ethereal creature that had taken the place of his earlier bedraggled and obnoxious flatmate. Sherlock had teased his normally unruly curls into a halo of precision ratting and hairspray. He was wearing a white poet’s shirt with long flared sleeves. The front was unlaced half-way down his long neck and pale chest, and John wanted desperately to slip his hand into the opening and see if his skin felt as lovely as it looked. Sherlock had tucked said shirt into the tightest and best-fitting pair of leather trousers that John had ever seen (and he’d seen a few, thank you very much). Each leg also had corset lacing along their front from his iliac crests all the way down his impossibly long legs to his boot tops, with which he’d added a couple of inches to his already willowy height. John congratulated himself that he was able to conjure the coherent thought that the boots weren’t so impractical that he couldn’t chase criminals. Sherlock had gone light on his makeup, compared to what John knew about goth culture, but John's brain, apparently working again, reasoned that Sherlock probably did it on purpose since needed to be recognizable for their charade to be effective. He had applied heavy eyeliner, though, and darkly lined burgundy stain to his lush, lush lips. He’d also done something to accentuate those ridiculous cheekbones. His long violinist’s fingers, now sporting black lacquered nails, was clutching at the strings of a deep purple waist cincher.

“JOHN, I REQUIRE-” Abruptly, Sherlock ceased his petulant tantrum and stared at John. “Oh. You find me attractive in this outfit. Good, it will help you to be more convincing in your role as my secret lover. Now please hurry up and work through your crisis of identity and help me with this lacing.”

John figured that Sherlock would likely see through any cover he tried to dream up at this point. His brain still wasn’t functioning at full capacity, and his mouth appeared to be hanging wide open, leaving his ability for response rather limited. And anyway, he was exhausted from hiding how he felt all the the time from the master of deduction. Fuck it, Sherlock finally knew that John found him attractive. It had only been a matter of time. John decided to take a risk. Worst case scenario, Sherlock would ignore the implications and they would move on with their lives. Best case scenario- well, they’d cross that unlikely bridge if it came to it. “Did that when I was seventeen. Just give me a minute to admire the view and I’ll come help you, like I always do.”

Confusion flickered across Sherlock’s face for a moment. John couldn’t help but gloat a little at the fact that he could surprise Mister Know-It-All. Sherlock’s focus narrowed sharply, piercing through John, searching for any signs of deception. Slowly, a mischievous smile crept from his full, dark lips to his lined eyes. He turned around seductively, offering John a spectacular view of his leather-clad arse as he offered up the offending laces. As part of the aftershock of his brazen declaration, John's lungs had decided to join his limbs in their stupor. He reminded himself that he should know, as a doctor, that one should remember to breathe. He looked away from Sherlock from a moment, regaining his composure. Once he had oxygen flowing properly to all of his limbs again, he made the rest of his way downstairs. His normally steady surgeon’s hands trembled a little as he took the laces from Sherlock's pale hand. He pulled them tighter through each eyelet with a little more force than was probably necessary.

“Oh yes, John. Harder.” Sherlock dropped his voice to a pitch that John had never heard him use before, but would definitely be thinking about the next time he had some time alone.

John couldn't tell if Sherlock was sincerely flirting or if they were supposed to be getting into character, but either way, he was feeling brave. He'd opened the door and he wasn't going to waste this opportunity to use his considerable seduction skills on Sherlock. “Oh, I’ll show you harder, Sherlock.” John cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. It seemed that his bravery might just be bravado. He quickly finished tying up the lacing.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice John's awkwardness. He turned to face John, smiling a predatory smile as he retorted, "Save it for the club, dear.” Sherlock then winked and strode off to get his coat. John realized two things.: one, that Sherlock had (thankfully? unfortunately?) forgotten his threats about doing John's hair; and two, that whether or not Sherlock was sincere, he was in deep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What are our boys getting themselves into? Obligatory backstory chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hooray, it's finally thursday! sorry to tease... maybe i should have mentioned that this one was a bit of a slow burn. but don't worry! i think it's going to be well worth the wait. thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos and comments! xo

The cab ride had been… well, excruciating. John had been trying desperately to focus on the last minute information Sherlock was giving him about the case, which was important. Very important. But most of his attention was on his fingers, which were still trembling in remembrance of their contact with Sherlock. Not that it had been the first time John had touched him, not by a long shot. He was always patching him up in some way or another after an explosion, or sometimes after an altercation with an angry client. But it had been the first time he was able to touch Sherlock in a way that even hinted at how he wanted to touch him. How he dreamed about touching him. Somewhere down that dangerous train of thought, he realized that Sherlock had stopped talking and was looking through him wearing his most self-satisfied smirk. 

“Are you with me again, John?”

“Uh, yeah. ‘M here.”

Sherlock flashed a him a predatory grin before continuing. “As I was saying, there is a certain… decorum in a club like Cities in Dust. Because there is an unstated understanding of discretion, people feel liberated to dress and behave in ways that are a bit… unorthodox. There will people in varying states of undress. Please restrain your libido enough not to ogle.”

“I do not ogle, Sherlock.” He added one of his favorite eye rolls for emphasis. 

“Of course. But remember, staring at women’s breasts will not only likely be entirely unwelcome, it will potentially hurt our cover story, which if you’ll remember is that we are intimate and ‘exclusive’.”

“Got it. No staring at women’s breasts.” John was certain that his face was completely flushed at this point, though he wasn’t certain whether from frustration or utter embarrassment at the images that flooded his mind when Sherlock’s velvet voice intoned the word ‘intimate’. 

Not breaking his intense eye contact, Sherlock went on. “This club is a venue that entertains two types of clientele. The back room is the goth club, where our killers will be hunting their next victims, if I am correct. Which of course, I am. However, we will have to enter through the front room, which is a performance area dedicated for men who dress up as women to perform musical numbers. Please do not stare or appear shocked. It must seem that you are at least somewhat comfortable with this world.”

John put on his most long-suffering look. “I know what a drag queen is, Sherlock.” 

Eyebrows raised, “Indeed?” 

John knew Sherlock’s tells well enough to see that he’d managed once again to render Sherlock genuinely shocked. Deciding to have a little fun with this rare advantage, he pressed on. “Yeah, and not just from daytime telly either, before you jump to that conclusion. I’ve been to my fair share of gay bars.”

Sherlock fidgeted with the lacing on his thigh. “Indeed.” 

John burst out laughing. He’d never heard Sherlock stuck on one word before. Now he knew Sherlock was distracted. Also, he was developing a theory that Sherlock had been hiding a deeply sensual nature. For instance, if John were to, say, use Sherlock’s own methods of deduction, he might notice that those leather trousers looked worn and fit extremely well. One might argue that Sherlock had worn them before. Perhaps a lot. Oh, he was going to have fun testing this new hypothesis. 

Sherlock blinked a few times. They passed another two blocks in silence before Sherlock resumed his dialog as though he hadn’t been completely distracted. “I am personally acquainted with the owner of this club. You may find her appearance rather extreme- or perhaps not, given your newly revealed depths. Should I assume that you have a deep hidden knowledge of goth culture as well as gay culture, John?”

“Nah, seems like that’s your skeleton in the closet.”

“Mmm. Well, Irene Adler lives up to her image. She is tall, authoritative, and sharp. She emulates Siouxie Sioux’s look, if you know who that is. One of her trademark features is her Egyptian-like eyeliner. Irene claims Siouxie stole it from her. In ‘retribution’, Irene appropriated of one of the singer’s songs as the name for her nightclub. Personally, I believe their rivalry is a put-on for publicity, and it seems to work out well for them. Do try to not be intimidated by her, John. She is quite unlike the women you are accustomed to dealing with.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions tonight about what I’m ‘accustomed to dealing with’, Sherlock.”

“Indeed. Well, we’ll proceed as planned. But in the case that you do become overwhelmed, we will try to play off that you are new to the scene and here because you are trying to appeal to my interests.”

John let the veiled insult toward his composure slide and focused instead on Sherlock’s earlier comment that he was familiar with this woman. With the door open, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to pry into Sherlock’s past, which he now realized how little he knew about. “How much are you performing for this role, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know what everything means. Do you often go to goth clubs?”

“I have been to this club, and others.”

“What happened to ‘married to the work’?”

“I did not say that I had no mistress. I like to dance. It quiets my mind. Beside, it has been several years since I’ve been here.”

John hesitated before asking, “Is this where you used to score?”

Sherlock affected the face he made when he wasn’t planning on answering, but then he surprised John. “Yes, one of the places. But this is also the club where I decided to get clean. In part, I owe Irene for that, actually. She and Lestrade ganged up on me after a particularly embarrassing incident here one night. Please don’t ask me for further details.” 

Shocked by Sherlock’s admission that he could even be embarrassed, he relented. “Okay, I won’t if you don’t want me to. But are you sure you should be working this case?” he asked as the cab pulled up in front of a dark warehouse-like building. Lestrade, who had been waiting out front for their arrival, caught this last bit of their conversation.

“Aye, he’s told you, has he? I want you to know that I was also against him helping with this case, John. But he convinced me he’s been clean long enough that he shouldn’t be tempted, so I reluctantly agreed to let him on. And because he was already familiar with the ‘scene’ we figured that he was uniquely qualified.”

“Also, you were stuck and you needed my superior deductive skills.”

“You’re a right prat, you know?”

“But I’m right.”

“Yes. We need your ‘superior deductive skills’, Mister Egomaniac. Happy?”

Sherlock did his best impression of a smug cat. “Please fill John in on the details of the case.”

“I’d have thought you’d have done by now?”

“Hearing them again from you may provide new insight. Please proceed.”

“Alright-" Lestrade looked skeptical that Sherlock might derive help from anything he had to recount, but he continued anyway. "It’s a right gruesome one. There’ve been four staged crime scenes so far, each containing multiple victims. Cause of death was exsanguination. All of the victims have puncture wounds on the neck imitating vampire bites. The pathologist determined that these were, in fact, the wound they bled out from. Since there was no blood at the scenes we assume they were killed elsewhere and moved. There have been two different sorts of staged ‘scenes’. One type involved victims who were apparently culled from some of the goth clubs around town. These were the first and third scenes that we found. The victims were all well known in their circles as Victorian Goths, or Romantigoths, all frill and lace like. They’re posed as though they’re at a tea party in a doll’s house. Some of ‘em are still propped up around a table with dead flowers and tea cups filled with blood. Others looked like they’ve been tossed about, like dollies that someone got tired of. It’s a little unnerving how much it reminds me of my what my daughter’s playhouse looks like after she’s had a strop, actually, but with real bodies. Creepy. We can’t make heads nor tails of it. Anyway, the other type of scene is, um… well, for lack of a better term, juvenile.”

“The better term would be ‘puerile’.”

“Thanks, asshole. So, John, the second and fourth scenes we found were made up from people dressed more like punks than goths, though near as we can tell they’ve no history in any subculture. Background checks show they’re all yuppies who’ve been dressed up like punks, altered pre- or post- mortem…”

“Pre-mortem. To humiliate them.” Sherlock interjected.

“Sure, if you say so. They were given makeovers and then positioned in some rather boringly subversive poses- flipping the bird, making devils’ horns, tongues out, and the like. Both of these times the victims were staged in front of the BBC building. If this doesn’t work out tonight we’ll at least we’ll know where to look for the next batch, I guess. We connect them to the other crime scenes because they were also exsanguinated, puncture wounds on the neck. Anyway, we can’t figure out if this is two separate groups, or cults, or whatever…”

“It is two individuals working together but trying to satisfy each other’s interests. Probably a long-time couple.” 

“Who said romance is dead?” John chuckled to himself under his breath, earning himself a snicker. 

“Sherlock, I still think there is no way that two people could pull this off alone,” Lestrade disagreed, ignoring their immaturity. “There are too many victims, in too short of a time.”

“I’m not certain yet of how exactly they are accomplishing this, but trust me. There are two of them. One is an angry male, who identifies strongly as anti-authoritarian and thinks very highly of himself. The other is a woman who is actually the clever one of the two, although she suffers frequent mental breaks that render her child-like. He likes to take care of her. He likes to indulge her whims. Right now, they’re playing a game. They’re taking turns, to be fair. As the last ‘scene’ was his, it is her turn tonight, which is why we are here at Cities in Dust. Many of the victims frequented this club, and may have been chosen from here. The suspects will be hard to distinguish from the crowd, though I’m certain Irene will have a narrow list of suspects- she is quite observant. At a club like this, among the many regulars there are also gawkers and posers- those are people pretending to be in the ‘scene’, John-”

John pushed down a stab of jealousy at Sherlock’s obvious admiration of the mysterious Irene Adler. “Please remember that I’m one of those posers tonight, you snob.”

“Hm. To the point, though, if we do not catch them tonight, I fear we’ll miss our opportunity for several weeks, as the other killer’s victims seem to be chosen randomly from the larger population. We’ll have to be vigilant. And as you’ve perhaps picked up from your daytime telly, John, these people have enough public animosity toward them without also being a haven for serial killers. The talk shows are always accusing them of Satanistic rituals and the like. I’d like to solve this as quickly as possible.”

“Do we have a plan?”

“Don’t I always?”

“No, you definitely do not always have a plan, Sherlock.”

“I’m hurt, John. Just because your tiny mind can’t keep up-”

“Oi, this tiny mind has to save your life when you muck up, running into situations without a plan. Try not to piss it off, yeah?”

“Fine. I do have a plan, though. Lestrade has people placed throughout the club. He’s going in ahead of us as well- in fact you can go on in any time, Lestrade.”

“I’ll consider myself dismissed, then.”

“Sorry, Greg. He means-” John started.

“Oh, he means what he always means. It’s fine, I’m tired of watching you two flirt. And anyway we should really get this operation started. I’ll catch you two inside. Be safe.”

“And us? What’s our plan?”

“We dance, John. We dance and observe. Look for anyone who seems to be drawing people to them, attracting followers. Anything that sounds your intuitive alarms.” 

“Only two problems with your ‘plan’, Sherlock. One, I don’t dance.”

“You do tonight, John. Just follow my lead. One of the nicer things about these clubs is that there is no wrong way to dance. You just listen to the music and move your body however it feels right.”

“Okay, we’ll see about that. But two, your plan lacks an end game. What are we supposed to we do when we identify them? Do you have a net stashed somewhere that you’ll toss over them or something? Pull off their vampire masks and reveal they were the janitor all along?”

John was not at all surprised that Sherlock obviously missed the reference. “I’ve worked out a set of signals with the Yarders inside. They will then leap to action. No nets required.” 

John wasn’t quite satisfied with that answer, but he knew from Sherlock's dismissive tone that it was the best he would get and dropped it. Sherlock turned to follow Lestrade inside. John reached for his arm, pulling him back around to look at him. He asked quietly, “This is personal for you, isn’t it?”

Sherlock considered before answering, “There was a time when this was a place of refuge for me. These people here deserve the same place of peace.”

“Why isn’t it still? I mean, why don’t you come here any more? It’s not just the drugs thing, is it?”

Sherlock reached to open the massive door. “No John, I have simply found a better place of refuge. Obviously.”


	3. Chapter 3

They stepped through the creaking doors together. John immediately noticed a drop in temperature. He then observed that the staircase was crumbling, seemingly beyond repair in parts, and descending at least two stories below ground. Before they made their way down the first flight he'd already lost sight of Sherlock rounding a corner, always four strides ahead with his impossibly long legs. John followed him with a bit more caution, which he considered quite warranted for what he was certain the imminent collapse of the entire building. He tried to imagine the immaculate Sherlock seeking this place out for refuge, or even recreation, and found it nearly impossible. As he turned the corner to another, somehow more decrepit stairwell, he began to hear the catchy chorus of a show tune that he vaguely recognized. And then, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness and flashing lights emanating from the door behind her, he noticed Sherlock lithely folding himself into the embrace of one of the most intimidating and gorgeous women he’d ever seen in real life. [Well, he did try to warn me... I guess that answers some questions, too. But I can’t believe the bastard had the audacity to tell ME to lay off the women. Christ, aren’t I just the idiot thinking that I could ever be in his league.] 

“Sherrrlock,” she purred.

“Irene.”

“I’ve missed you terribly. A girl could think you were avoiding her.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Hm, yes. Saving London from peril- I’ve been reading about you in the papers. I’ve saved a few of the better photographs they’ve taken too for my… personal collection.”

“I-I’m John,” he blurted. [Oh, smooth, John. Real smooth.] Sherlock smirked down at him knowingly. [Oh great, and that git’s enjoying the hell out of this too, likely.]

“Yes, Irene. This is my partner, John Watson. I’m sure you’ve seen him in the photographs as well.”

“Of course,” She turned her attention fully to John and he swore he could feel her mentally undressing him both physically and psychologically. “Oh, and aren’t you just delicious. I can see why he keeps you. You know, Sherlock, I have a couples’ special for my… other services. I wonder if your John would enjoy spicing things up a touch?” She ran a long, pointed fingernail down John’s blushing cheek. 

“I’m sure he’s quite satisfied, Irene. We’re here on business, anyway. If you’ll remember.” 

“Mm, he seems a bit neglected, Sherlock. You may want to reconsider after your case is solved. Perhaps your John will find himself with some free time.”

John had quickly deduced that Irene Adler was as cunning and perceptive as Sherlock himself. He was pretty certain that she saw right through their ruse and he worried slightly at her giving them away. He was also sure that she knew that he was in- whatever he was for Sherlock- and that for some reason she was trying to get a rise out of him . He was nervous that she could put them in even more danger than they needed to be in. Sherlock must have had the same concern because he seemed to be making an effort to save John from embarrassment, which was completely out of character for the self-proclaimed sociopath. [He’s probably just warning me to stay in character, what with me being the dim one of the bunch.] He was trying to work out how this version of John Watson was supposed to be reacting to this situation when Sherlock wrapped his arm around his waist. Of all the options he'd considered, he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to startle quite so violently when his ‘boyfriend’ touched him. He’d have to definitely work on that.

“If you could just tell us what you are avoiding telling us, Irene, rather than trying to distract ‘my’ John with your innuendo.” Sherlock drew the attention back to himself, and their reason for being there.

Irene traced one last caress down John’s cheek, then she turned back toward Sherlock. Her demeanor shifted abruptly into something much more businesslike.

“I’ve been keeping extra surveillance on our guests over the last several weeks. Like you, I’ve been certain that the police were being rather slow to realize that these events were connected. You know I like to run a tight ship, and I very much dislike the idea of someone- or someones- coming into my nightclub and killing my paying guests.” She paused.

Sherlock wave his hand distractedly. “Yes, and...?”

She paused. “As yet, it’s not busy tonight. There are a few regulars, all of whom are a little too regular to be your suspects, and a little too antisocial. Most of the people who arrive this early do it to enjoy the space on the dance floor, others to enjoy the bar before the lines form. The club won’t be properly busy for another hour or so. On the nights of the murders involving my guests, there was a couple here who I haven’t seen before- I’d keep an eye out for them if I was you. He's definitely dishy, but he’s got a bad approximation of a Billy Idol thing going on, cockney accent. She’s dark, petite, posh, and decidedly disturbed.” Sherlock looked smug at his earlier assessment’s verity. “They usually make their entrance at peak times, and they definitely attract attention. I’ve heard rumors that a certain set even believes them to be, well, True Vampires. Although the same people latch onto a different vampiric messiah every year or so, I’ll say there’s something… different about these two.” John wasn’t sure, but he thought he detected just a trace of fear.

Sherlock scoffed, obviously sharing his observation. “Don’t tell me you’ve become superstitious, Irene.”

Irene didn’t appear bothered by Sherlock’s scorn. “You’ll see, Sherlock. But if you’re so certain, perhaps you’d like to place a small wager?” she offered suggestively.

“As much as the idea of acquiring whatever sordid blackmail you have on my brother appeals, I’ll spare you the humiliation of defeat.” 

“Oh Sherlock, I can’t wait to see what you look like when you have to admit that you’re wrong.” John couldn’t help but laugh at the idea, drawing Irene’s attention back to him. “You should consider the wager, darling. I’m quite sure John would thank you for it.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he leaned in closer to John. “With so few patrons here, we’ll have to find a way to blend in, darling,” Sherlock rumbled into his ear, catching him off-guard again and sending a tremor straight to his cock. “We’d better go get settled in on the dance floor.”

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the reality of the situation finally hitting him. He was at a goth club, where everyone is supposed to believe them to be a couple. They were about to dance. He was about to dance with a very, very sexily dressed Sherlock Holmes, the man who had been front and center of all of his fantasies for the last two years. And they were here hunting serial killers, which to Sherlock was probably the closest thing to foreplay that he could imagine. And Sherlock was flirting with him. [Well, fuck it. It might all be a ruse for the case, but I may as well enjoy it while I can.] John stood up a bit straighter and looked Sherlock in the eye. He finally snaked his arm around Sherlock’s corseted waist, returning Sherlock's embrace. He shivered a little as he brushed the corset laces, thrilled that he had permission to touch Sherlock this way.

“You’re welcome,” Irene called after their retreating figures. “And you’ve got a tab with both bars. Tip your bartenders.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

John’s resolve faltered once they entered the first room. He had truly thought he was ready- he had, in fact, been to a drag bar or two. But this was unlike any place he’d ever seen. It was enormous, and completely packed with men in various states of dress and undress. Some were in full drag and other, incredibly youthful looking men were only dressed in gold bathing thongs. John eventually registered that the latter were waiters handing out trays of colorful shots to whomever was willing to put a tenner in their pants. A performer was on stage doing a bawdy rendition of It’s Raining Men, and this number seemed to be a full participation event. Yet even amid the shouting, singing, and writhing men around them, their entrance created a stir. He wasn’t sure if it was because of their fame in the papers, or because of Sherlock’s past here, but they were definitely noticed. A few people were practically salivating at Sherlock’s arse as he walked by, and John bit down his feelings of jealousy as he noticed Sherlock nodding a bit too familiarly back at a few of them. Men surrounded John too, and they were grabbing at his dog tags, belt, and anything else they could reasonably lay their hands on, trying to draw him into the fray. He’d never been the recipient of such unabashed groping by strangers, and through the haze of his indignation and shame he couldn’t help but wonder if this is how women felt all of the time. He found himself wishing desperately that they had never left 221B, their armchairs by the quietly crackling fireplace, and his cozy and conservative jumpers. He was trying to figure out how the character he was supposed to be playing would respond to being treated like a piece of meat- should he act like this was natural, fine even?- when Sherlock once again came to the rescue. Of course he had noticed John’s discomfort- likely when John had unconsciously released his waist and stood staring like a terrified hare surrounded by foxen- and he took swift charge of the situation. Sherlock took John’s hand and began pulling him toward another door in the back of the room with determination. He leaned close to John to be heard over the din, and John felt his warm breath brush over his neck as Sherlock told him, “You don’t have to pretend to be altogether comfortable with this, John. Remember, you’re not supposed to have much exposure in this environment, and it is definitely not something that everyone would be comfortable with. For most people, entrance to this club is automatically considered consent, but it probably shouldn’t be. We’re headed to the other room where it will be much more sedate.” He pulled John closer and began to glare at anyone who came near them, for all appearances looking the jealous lover. For once John found himself grateful instead of resentful for Sherlock’s sharp intuition as to his state of mind, and of their assumed relationship, and they fought their way through the rest of the club to the door beyond.

Sherlock hadn’t been exaggerating- this was definitely a different world. John felt immediate relief as the darkness and smoke enfolded him, protecting him. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he saw that Irene had been accurate in describing her patrons. There were a few people drinking at the bar to the left of the room, in pairs or solo. John assumed that the aforementioned undercovers were among these. A few other people were dancing unabashedly on the slightly sunken dance floor to their right. Best thing was, though, no one was paying them any attention. The very angry sounding song that had been playing faded into an ethereal whooshing. A dark and sultry guitar intro began, and he realized that Sherlock had not let go of his hand but was pulling him toward the dance floor. John barely had time to wish that he’d at least had a couple of whiskeys first when they reached the spot that Sherlock chosen. Sherlock released his hand. He stepped away from John and started to dance. It was like nothing John had ever seen before, and he wasn’t entirely certain that it should even be legal. John didn’t know the song, but he began swaying to the music anyway, feeling out of place just standing and staring.

Under blue moon I saw you  
So soon you’ll take me  
Up in your arms, too late to beg you  
Or cancel it, though I know it must be  
The killing time…  
Under moonlight

Sherlock’s hips were doing something sinful, and he started twisting his long, beautiful arms through the air, around himself, and eventually around John, teasing him mercilessly with his repeated advance and retreat. John realized self-consciously that he wasn’t moving again- he really needed to see to this Sherlock-induced paralysis- and began trying to mimic Sherlock’s motions. While watching the exquisite man dance was calming in itself, all of John's feelings of awkwardness were completely forgotten as Sherlock began singing along in his silky, rich baritone.

In starlit nights I saw you  
So cruelly you kissed me  
Your sky all hung with jewels  
The killing moon  
Will come too soon

John lost himself in the dance. Everyone around them was moving their body as felt natural to them, and it was beautiful. John’s insecurity was gone. He focused on the feeling of moving his body so freely, and on Sherlock’s graceful twirling and swaying. He thought hazily that no one should be able to move their body like that, especially not someone so vehemently asexual. Then he thought that they should maybe do this more often. 

Fate  
Up against your will  
He will wait until  
You give yourself to him

With the last line, Sherlock’s eyes locked fiercely onto John. Oh. There was no doubt that this was the real Sherlock communicating with him, and Sherlock wanted him. Sherlock… WANTED him. Well. John certainly wasn’t going to lose his chance by responding with mixed signals. He met Sherlock’s gaze and let everything he’d been repressing all these long months blaze through. As the song progressed, they moved closer and closer, flirting with light touches, maintaining their heated eye contact. Sherlock spun closer to John, and just as John was sure that Sherlock was finally going to kiss him, he danced instead around and wrapped his arms around John from behind. Still moving to the music, Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck, saying, “People are filtering in now, John. I’m sure you’ve noted the location of all of the exits.” John had not, in fact, noticed anything but Sherlock, who was currently running his hand up John’s chest. “Watch carefully for the couple that Irene described. They’ll be deliberately attracting attention, it will be difficult to miss them.” John was pretty sure he wouldn’t notice the entire British Army if they marched into this club if Sherlock kept touching him. Sherlock must have been able to read his thoughts again because he huffed a frustrated sigh into John’s neck and pulled away. Some of the blood found its way back to John’s brain. He shook his head a little to clear it, pushing down the feeling of utter loss at the lack of physical contact he’d been able to enjoy so fleetingly. Sherlock danced back around in front of John and gave him a meaningful look. Later, his eyes seemed to promise. Oh yes, later. 

John was busy struggling to push away rather explicit thoughts of what ‘later’ implied when he felt his attention hijacked. A man and a woman had entered the bar with a presence that immediately commanded everyone’s attention. He was handsome- Irene had been right about that. But he emanated a sort of smug superiority in his black jeans, floor-length leather duster, and his condescending sneer that John thought was a little bit overblown. The woman, though- she was unlike anyone John had ever seen before. She was small and looked quite fragile. She wore a dress that looked like it was a nightgown from the last century, its high lace collar and long sleeves belying a conservatism that was contradicted by the sheerness of the shift. John resolved not to try to deduce if she wore anything beneath. Her long, dark, unruly hair was loosely braided with dark blue ribbons. She seemed like she existed separate from time- from modernity. Her large, dark eyes were somehow both ageless and innocent as she scanned the denizens of the club. She spun and twirled and practically floated onto the other side of the dance floor. But although she was attracting the attention of everyone in the bar, and enjoying the attention, she was obviously dancing for an audience of one. Her partner followed her onto the dance floor, never taking his eyes off of her.

Sherlock growled into John's ear, evidently noticing that his attention was no longer focused on him. John struggled to bring attention back to the task at hand. He felt a little chagrined at how much he’d let the woman capture his attention, but he couldn’t help but feel a thrill at Sherlock’s possessiveness. Before he had a chance to ruminate further on that particular sensation, it seemed that both of the new arrivals noticed Sherlock. John could tell that Sherlock knew the moment that he had their attention. She crooked her finger, beckoning Sherlock to join them. Without hesitation, he went into undercover mode. He released John and began dancing toward the couple. While Sherlock had been sexy when dancing with John, John could now tell that dance had been for him. It was understated, intimate. Now, fully in bait mode, he turned on the kind of seduction John had seen him use with clients and victims. It seemed gaudy, in retrospect, but it had been proved effective in the past so John pushed down his jealousy and let Sherlock get to work. His earlier concerns about Sherlock using himself as bait seemed silly now that he saw the suspects, but he kept a wary eye just in case. Not that it was that much of a burden to watch these three Iele converge in their dance.

A new song came on. John stepped back a few paces; he wanted to be able to be at hand if Sherlock should require him. He leaned against the rail that encircled the dance floor. While he was debating if he had time to nip over to the bar and get that drink, he picked up some of the lyrics and chuckled at the thought that either Irene Adler or the DJ seemed to have a great sense of humor. 

From the cradle bars  
Comes a beckoning voice  
It sends you spinning  
You have no choice

All of a sudden, the tempo increased. Everyone dancing broke into a frenzy. John noticed that the dance looked almost choreographed. It seemed like there was a pattern to it all, and that everyone knew their place in it. Sherlock looked so right here, practically floating through the twirling bodies with a nearly preternatural grace. 

You hear a laughter  
Cracking thought the walls  
It sends you spinning  
You have no choice

The tempo increased again. The crowd began circling the dark-haired woman, who had positioned herself in the center of the floor. There was no trace of her previous demure persona. Instead, she was a siren, a succubus, commanding everyone’s attention with pure seduction and the aura of raw power. John watched as Sherlock deftly used the movements of his dance to observe those dancing around her like worshipers, breathing a sigh of relief that Sherlock hadn’t been sucked into the mass hysteria that seemed to be unfolding around him. 

Following the footsteps  
Of a ragdoll dance  
We are entranced  
Spellbound  
Spellbound  
Spellbound

Indeed, that was a good word for what John was seeing- everyone looked spellbound. Sherlock was doing a good impersonation of it too, and John realized that Sherlock must be aware of how much the woman’s partner was scrutinizing him. In fact, the blond man was completely fixated on Sherlock, and he seemed to be practically herding him closer and closer toward the woman. As the song came to a climax, Sherlock, the blond man, and the woman had formed a beautiful trio in the center of a whirlpool of writhing bodies. The song ended abruptly, and the spell was broken. The DJ switched to a slower song, and many of the dancers wandered off the floor entirely, looking more than a little disoriented, although a few stragglers milled around trying to get the woman's attention. John decided this was probably a good time to rejoin Sherlock, as the two suspects were now leering at him rather lasciviously. He walked up as the woman was leaning into Sherlock, standing on her tip toes to whisper something in his ear, her hand entangled in the laces of his shirt. John caught Sherlock’s eye and with that uncanny communication they sometimes had, John could tell that Sherlock was barely tolerating her touch. He jumped into action. Wondering briefly what kind of signal Sherlock had worked out with the yard, he hitched himself up a bit higher, put out his chest, and walked purposefully over to the group. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer possessively. The woman hissed in frustration, and with excruciating slowness, turned to acknowledge John’s arrival.

Before she could speak,though, the blond man stepped between them and shouted, “Oi, mate. Fuck off, Dru here wasn’t done talking.”

“Oh? And what, exactly, does she need to be talking to my boyfriend about?” John thought he could see Sherlock preening a bit at his terminology. 

“Whatever the hell she wants to,” he leered at John. “But I bet she’d be glad to talk to you too, right love?” His face softened as he reached over and delicately took her hand. She stepped forward, eyes still boring into John’s. He wondered if she really thought she was hypnotizing him, or if she just thought they were really gullible. He decided he wouldn’t put money on either scenario. 

“Mm, look at him, Spike, he’s all bristly. He thinks he’s a lion. RAWR!” She bared and snapped her teeth at him. Despite the absurdity of it, John found himself a little terrified. “The other one, though, he’s a tiger. Mmm, sleek and cunning. Or maybe he’s a sphinx. So many answers, yet still so curious. Curiosity killed the kitty, though, again and again, and now he’s only got one more life left.” 

“Sure, love. But we should really hurry up and choose, yeah? Do you want any more dollies tonight?” He waved idly at the crowd of people who were still clamoring to catch their attention. “I’m a mite peckish tonight, could do with a few courses.” John realized that this cocky bloke didn’t even seem to mind that they were standing right there, could hear them perfectly, and that no one else seemed bothered by his comments. 

“Look at them all, all the little dollies, Spike. They dance for me. Not these two, though. Dance, dollies!” She looked pointedly at John and Sherlock, who made no move to do as she requested.

“Drusilla, we’re on a timeline here, pet. Now pick out your toys or I’ll pick them for you.”

As she scanned the eager dancers, looking pensive, she gasped and pointed to a shadowy figure. “Oh, Spike, look. There’s Daddy. Hello, Daddy. Do you like my dollies? They’re a bit wiggly right now but I’ll put them right soon.”

“Bollocks,” Spike spat as he glared at the brooding man in the corner who was silently watching them. “Dru, we’ve got to go now.”

“But I don’t want to,” she whined, plucking at Sherlock’s sleeve. “I’m not done playing with my kitty.”

“Yes, you are, Dru. We can come back for them another time.”

“But I don’t WANT to go with Daddy. He’s not any fun any more. He used to be ever so much fun, too. Now he's just all guilt and rats.”

“Exactly, love. We’re not going with him but we need to go, right now. We won’t have any more fun tonight.”

She let out a long, high pitched whine and stomped her foot. “We should just kill Daddy.”

“One day, Dru, I’ll do just that. Just for you. But we’re not going to kill him tonight, so let’s GO.” He tugged at the woman’s arm. “Until next time, gents,” he called over his shoulder as they pushed their way through the crowd. 

John glanced at Sherlock with an incredulous look on his face. “We’re going after them, yeah?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock turned to follow the couple out the door, John in tow.

John glanced around looking for the man who had prompted their flight, but he was gone. John hoped that whoever he was, he was on their side. He seemed to be the only person that the couple was genuinely afraid of. Or at least annoyed by, which to psychopaths must be rather like being afraid, John thought. They exited the sanctuary of the goth club and tore through the raucous front room and past the ever-vigilant Irene, who was pointing grimly in the direction of an emergency door John hadn't noticed before. Followed by a couple of people John assumed were the promised backup, they stepped outside. Sherlock scanned the area. He decisively turned away from the line of people awaiting entry at the front door and ducked through an alley, John just a step behind. They eventually lost the coppers assigned to help them. They careened around corners, scaled fire escapes, and ran along rooftops for hours, until the sun’s rays began to peek over the horizon. John was exhausted, sore, and irritated by the time they returned home, but Sherlock was positively irate. As they climbed the stairs, Sherlock commenced a scathing rant about how two nitwits could not have possibly outsmarted him, loftily declaring that surely they must have had much smarter outside help, and began reciting an increasingly angry list of the ways in which they could have possibly escaped without leaving a viable trail for him to pick up. John nodded along sympathetically, hoping they weren't waking Mrs Hudson. Though he was certain that Sherlock wasn’t looking for reassurance, nor probably did he even notice John's presence. Sure enough, after tossing his coat onto John’s chair, Sherlock plopped himself down onto the couch in the reclining version of his thinking pose. John sighed, brooding over how promisingly the evening had started. He knew he wouldn’t get another word from Sherlock for at least several hours, no less be able to explore the ‘later’ that had been subtly promised. He trudged dejectedly up to his room to try to sleep for a few hours until Sherlock needed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve moved the notes to the end of the chapter to avoid spoilers. A few random things…
> 
> Cities in Dust is a combination of two of my old goth club haunts. I was initially going to have three club scenes in the story but I condensed it to two to move the story along, so I ended up mashing together The Embers in Portland (RIP) and Leeland’s City Club in Detroit. Oh, and I tossed in some waiters from the Silverado in Portland too, just for funsies and because that was one of my first eye-opening, hedonistically drunk experiences in Portland and it made me smile to think about old friends and good times while writing this.
> 
>  
> 
> Introducing Irene in this capacity made me desperately want some Irene Adler/Pam from True Blood slash in this universe- one in which Pam convinces Irene to become a vampire, though at first Irene resists the idea because her only previous interactions with vampires were Spike and Drusilla, and they really put her off the idea. Perhaps one day I’ll write it, but probably not, so feel free to have at it if you feel this story needs to exist too.
> 
> If you’re listening along to the background music, the boys have their first dance to The Killing Moon by Echo and the Bunnymen. Our villains arrive to Siouxie and the Banshees’ Spellbound. I imagined the last song as something Dead Can Dance-y.
> 
> Oh, and as to Angel, I know in BTVS canon he’s not really fighting the bad guys until 1996, but I took some liberties because I didn’t want to invent a slayer character (there’s a gap between Nikki and India), and I like the dynamic between Angel and Spike and Drusilla. Sorry if it offends, but hey, it’s an AU! 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, commenting, and kudos! Stay tuned for the exciting next chapter again on Thursday!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: a little light s&m

“John.” Sherlock’s voice called out from the darkened doorway. 

“Hmph,” John replied.

“John. Wake up.”

“Can’t. Too tired.”

“John. I’ve figured something out.”

John opened his eyes. He could barely make out Sherlock’s tall- and rather nude looking- form from the light of the hall. “What the hell, Sherlock? What’s so urgent that you couldn’t even put on a robe?”

“What would I need that for? Like I said, I’ve figured something out.”

“Well, should I get up? Are we going after them now? You’ll have to give me a sec to get dressed, I’m not exactly decent here.”

“Oh, it’s not about the case, John. No need for clothes.”

“Right. What are you on about, then?”

“I figured something out about you.”

“And you needed to wake me at arse-o’-clock to tell me?” John was getting a little nervous. Knowing Sherlock, this could either be very good or very bad.

“Yes, John. It seemed rather urgent that I test this hypothesis.” Sherlock stalked toward John’s bed slowly, his voice so deep he was practically growling. “You see, John, I have been developing a theory that you want me to spank you. Shh, before you protest, remember that I never make an assertion without proper evidence. You see, I began working on this particular theory based on the way you were looking at my riding crop last week. You thought I didn’t notice, but you should know by now that I notice EVERYTHING, John, especially when it pertains to you. I observed that as you watched me strike the corpse in the morgue you displayed multiple signs of arousal. Your pupils dilated, your face was flushed, you were producing a rather alarming amount of saliva, and you were stroking your hip repeatedly in the same location as I was thrashing the corpse with this.” Sherlock had finally made it to the side of the bed, and John watched in tortured silence as Sherlock produced his riding crop from the shadows, wrapped his long fingers around its shaft, and began teasing up and down, up and down. “And, John, if that was not evidence enough- which of course it was- the fact that your penis looks painfully engorged as I recall these events tells me everything that I need to know. So be a good little soldier, then, and turn onto your stomach.”

This was most certainly not a situation he’d ever expected to be in. Although they had pretty much both admitted that they wanted to jump each other, John hadn’t even had time to hope that they’d be able to negotiate this sort of thing into their- whatever the hell was going on. Apparently he was taking too long to turn over though, because the next thing he knew Sherlock brought the crop down sharply on his hip, exactly where he’d been describing John rubbing it. It didn’t feel nearly as nice as John had hoped it would, either.

“Fuck, Sherlock. You can’t just go into people’s rooms hitting them with riding crops in the middle of the night!”

“Not people, John. Just you. But I will ask you, this once, would you like me to leave?” There was such confidence in his voice. Sherlock knew John was not going to tell him to stop. And damn it, he really wasn’t. “Good. Turn over. I can make you enjoy this, John. But you’ll have to cooperate.”

John pushed himself over and groaned as his now aching erection pressed between the mattress and his stomach. Before he could adjust it and maybe give it a little tug or two to take the edge off, Sherlock brought the riding crop down on his newly exposed arse cheek, though not as hard this time.

“John. You forgot to say ‘Yes, sir’. If you’d like me to show you how much you could enjoy this, you’ll behave appropriately.” Sherlock studied him for a minute, then smacked the crop down again in exactly the same place. “John…”

“Yes! Yes sir.” 

John knew he was fucked. Royally. And literally, hopefully. Sherlock hummed as he very gently smoothed the emerging welt with the leather tongue. He took his time now, knowing that John was in utter compliance. John felt Sherlock teasing the whip over his sore left buttock. His skin erupted in goose bumps as Sherlock ghosted the whip over his Venusian dimples and down to the center of the unblemished cheek. He began a slowly unfolding spiral outward, around and around, larger and larger, until he had nowhere to go with the tip of the riding crop but straight down the crack of John’s arse. Sherlock increased pressure as he passed John’s opening and slid down his perineum and John cried out, rutting forcefully against the bed. 

“Spread your legs, John,” Sherlock said, using the whip to press John’s leg outward. 

By this point, John was nearly drowning in sensation and nearly forgot that he was supposed to answer. He felt Sherlock lift the crop, ready to strike.

“Yes- yes sir!” John cried as he spread his legs obediently. He was rewarded with a light tap on his thigh, the leather just grazing his skin. 

“Good, John. Very good.” Sherlock sounded sincerely pleased with him, and John realized that he wasn’t even embarrassed at how he preened at Sherlock’s praise. “Now, John. I’m going to need you to count for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes, sir.” He would do anything to keep hearing Sherlock invoke his name this way. 

“I know you can. You’re so clever. Now, John. Tonight we’re only going to go to twenty, and I know you can do that. You’ll want more, but you need time to adjust to this. So I’ll exercise self-restraint, though it will be difficult for me as well. If you’re very, very good then perhaps I’ll let you suck me off afterward. Would you like that, John?”

“Yes, sir.” John whispered, desperate. 

“Well, then show me how good you can be. Count.” Before he even finished the last word, he brought the riding crop sharply down across John’s entire arse, just over the crease where his glutes met his thighs. 

“One.” It hurt more than John expected, but his arousal was almost unbearable anyway and he was glad for something to distract him. He wasn't sure he'd last very long in the state he was in.

“Mmm, yes. Very good, John.” Sherlock lashed him again, this time just above the last mark.

“Two.”

Sherlock continued moving upward, one stroke at a time, as John counted to ten. Once Sherlock reached John's lower back, he stopped lashing and gently ran the tip of the crop around John’s now striped arse, admiring his handiwork. Without warning, he snapped the whip down three times in rapid succession, directly on top of his first target. John gasped for breath, hovering in a euphoric haze somewhere between pain and pleasure. 

“Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen,” he managed to choke out before Sherlock became angry with him. 

“Oh John, you are EVER so good. And we’re so close, now. So close to earning my cock in your mouth. I was going to make you kneel, but I think I’d much rather see you sitting on my marks while you have that gorgeous mouth around me. Yes, I think I’d like you to be feeling me here-” he slapped the crop down perpendicular across his other lashings- “while you also feel me here.” He turned the crop around and nudged the handle into John’s eager mouth. 

“Fourteen,” John managed to utter around the leather shaft before closing his mouth around it. 

“Oh, you are a good little cock slut, aren’t you?” Sherlock fucked John’s mouth with the riding crop while he talked. “I should have deduced sooner how much you wanted me to take you into my control- all the evidence was there. You’ve been staring at me for months. You enjoy it when I order you around. I see how you struggle, pretending that you’re put out. But what you really struggle with is how much you desire to completely submit.” Sherlock pulled the crop out and wiped the saliva onto John’s cheek, already wet with sweat and tears of frustration. “Well, John. Here you are. Mine. I can see how badly you’d like to come. But you need to make it to twenty, John, or else I’ll have to start over. And it won’t be as nice if you’ve already ejaculated. I’m going to hit you again, now, and you won’t come.” Three lashes again.

“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen!” John knew that even if he was allowed to, he wouldn’t be able to come with just the friction of the bedsheets. He was dying to touch himself, or better yet, for Sherlock to wrap those gorgeous hands around his cock and let him- SMACK- the lash took him by surprise. “EIGHTEEN!” 

“Only two more now, John. Only two more and then you get to put this- Sherlock ran the riding crop along the length of his dripping cock- down your throat. Can you take it, John? Do you think you’ll be able to take all of me?” Sherlock flicked the whip down on one of the few remaining areas where he hadn’t yet struck. 

“Nineteen.” John was beyond desperate. He was panting. He was drenched in sweat. His dick throbbed beneath him. Every bit of his awareness was concentrated on the buzzing warmth of his battered haunches. He existed solely in a timeless fog of desire. And he waited… and waited. It seemed Sherlock was never going to give him what he needed. He was a desperate, writhing mess. Finally, he couldn’t stop himself from begging. “Please- please, sir.”

“Please what, John?”

“Please, sir, may I have another?”

CRACK. The whip came down on John’s perineum, and it was more than he could take. Friction or no, he was coming harder than he’d ever come in his life screaming, “TWENTY!”

John awoke violently, still feeling the aftershocks of his orgasm. He wasn’t sure if he’d been actually vocalizing, but his sore throat led him to believe that he had. Sweating and feeling filthy in more ways than one, he grasped desperately at the last tendrils of his dream. He wanted to just go back and finish dream Sherlock off, and to have time to decompress from the most intense session of his life. The mind-shattering orgasm he’d just had left him feeling completely discombobulated. Even if it hadn’t been real, the emotions he was feeling as a result of what he just experienced definitely were. As he calmed down and got his heart rate and breathing back into normal parameters he realized that there were raised voices coming from downstairs and prayed they hadn't heard him. He’d hoped for more time to process, but since they had company he decided despondently that he wasn’t going to get the time he needed to fully recover. He listened for clues as to what he was going to walk into when he finally made it downstairs. The lack of real anger in Sherlock’s raised voice told John that it wasn’t Mycroft who was the recipient of his scorn. Probably Lestrade, then. Mustering the willpower to get up and go see what was happening, he groaned as he pulled the covers back, seeing the extent of the mess he’d made. A shower first, then.

By the time John felt clean enough to venture into the kitchen in the hope of a much-needed cup of tea, it seemed like Sherlock and Lestrade had calmed down a bit.

“And if you run off again without backup I will take you off this case, Sherlock. I mean it.”

“I had backup. I had John.”

“You know what I mean. Proper backup. If two people really are capable of killing that many people in a night then I’m not sure what you and John- even with that gun I’m not supposed to know about- think you’ll accomplish.”

“Fine. But hire some faster backup. I’m not going lose the suspects again because your men can’t keep up.”

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. “I still don’t like it, mate.”

“You know it is the only way. John, you can stop lurking outside of the kitchen and come join us any time.”

“I wasn’t ‘lurking’. I just never know what I’m walking into is all. Mornin’ Lestrade, I see Sherlock didn’t offer you tea?” Sherlock looked slightly offended at the thought of making anyone tea. Lestrade just laughed. “So, a new plan then?” John asked as he got out three mugs. 

“Obviously.”

“Care to share with the dummy?”

“Oh John, you know that you are adequately intelligent.”

“Oh wow, mate, that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard him say to anyone.” Lestrade looked genuinely surprised.

“I’d be flattered but I know it’s his way of avoiding the question. I’m not gonna get to know the details of the plan, then?”

“In due time, John.”

“Great, I’ll just use my adequate intelligence to just make the tea, shall I?” Sherlock ignored him.

“Any idea what that ‘Daddy’ stuff was about?” Lestrade asked, trying to change the subject.

“It seems there’s a third player who we did not anticipate.”

“Yeah, I saw that guy. Real broody, disappeared quick too. I didn’t get a good look at him from where I was standing. I’m sure you deduced his entire life story, though, yeah?” 

Begrudgingly, Sherlock conceded, “I only had a moment to observe him.”

“Wait, what?” John couldn’t believe it. “You didn’t get anything? Too busy dancing with our ‘vampires’, then?” John tried very hard not to sound jealous. He wasn’t entirely successful. 

Sherlock fixed his gaze on John, making him feel completely transparent. “I had to stay in character, John. It had to appear that I was bewitched by them. They believe they are vampires. People who believe them to be vampires were responding to them accordingly. I had to blend in. They believe they are capable of ‘glamouring’ people- compelling people to submit to their will entirely- and there are plenty of people who are very willing to submit. Vampire infatuation is often tied to the idea of the eroticism of power and control, or the surrender of those things. There are conscripted behaviours from which I could not deviate if I was to retain credibility. They would have noticed had my attention strayed.”

John turned an entirely new shade of red, desperately trying to push back the onslaught of images from his dream that had resurfaced at Sherlock’s description. Thankfully, the kettle whistled and he had a reason to turn away from the ever-observant detective, who was still staring through him. He glanced down at the copy of the Times lying on the counter and instantly a cold rage replaced whatever undefinable thing he’d been feeling just a moment ago.

“Shit.” 

Lestrade looked at the paper, then at John’s face, and said, “I’m gonna use the loo, boys. Be right back.” No one noticed.

“Sherlock.” John turned around and saw that Sherlock was now doing everything in his power to not make eye contact. “There is a picture of us in the Times.”

Hesitantly, Sherlock responded, “There is often a picture of us in the papers, John.”

“There is a BLOODY PICTURE OF US, SHERLOCK. From last night. DANCING.”

Sherlock looked up. “You’re mad.”

“The fucking paps won’t ever leave us alone after this. Of course I’m mad!”

“What if I told you I set it up? I tipped them off- oh, I see that makes you more angry.”

“You’re fucking right it makes me angry! Now the whole city thinks-” he couldn’t quite decide how he wanted to finish that sentence. 

Sherlock was staring daggers at him. If John hadn’t known it was impossible, he’d have sworn that Sherlock looked hurt. Before he could be sure of what he saw, Sherlock resumed his neutral face. 

“Your precious image of heterosexuality can be regained. As soon as this case is over, we will be certain to alert the world to our deception. You can write it up in your magazine serial- The Case of The Ouch My Masculinity, if you will. But I remind you, you consented to this cover. And now we have criminals to catch, so can you please stay focused for another day or two until I can resolve this case?”

John started at Sherlock's rare use of the word 'please'. He really didn’t want to let Sherlock think he wouldn’t be absolutely chuffed to proclaim to the world that he was in- whatever- with the amazing Sherlock Holmes. He took a deep breath before answering. “Sherlock. I don’t give a rat’s ass of the entire commonwealth thinks I’m a fruit, or a naff, or whatever in-between.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John’s use of Polari. “You have been keeping secrets.”

John chuckled, “Damn straight. And it appears once again that I’m not the only one.”

“Indeed. So tell me, John, what makes you so angry?”

John regarded the picture. Why was he so angry? The picture was lovely. The photographer had caught them in an intimate moment. The were looking at each other like it was- like it was real. And no one had the right to be part of that, to be a voyeur to their intimacy. Especially since it wasn’t real yet. John didn’t even have it for himself and here everyone else got to be involved.

“Figure it out yourself, genius,” John sighed as the kitchen phone rang. 

“Yes!” Sherlock snapped into the receiver. He listened for a moment before yelling, “Lestrade, there’s another one.”

A little too quickly, Lestrade reappeared. “That’s interesting. Only one?”

“Yes, exsanguinated but not staged.”

“Interesting.”

“John, we must go to the morgue now. Be angry later.” Before John could respond that he wasn’t angry any more anyway, Sherlock was flying out of the kitchen. He grabbed his coat shouting at John and Lestrade to hurry up already. John smiled wistfully at his untouched tea. Before following Sherlock and Lestrade out of the door, he carefully folded the newspaper and tucked it into a safe place on the bookshelf. Despite his mixed feelings about the public exposure, he’d definitely be cutting that one out for his scrapbook.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wham! bam! i made you wait long enough for a little smutty smut, sorry it wasn’t real! but what is real anyway? lol
> 
> i'll be travelling over the next few weeks, and i have quite a bit of driving to do which makes it hard to write. i'll still post chapters on thursdays but they might be a little smaller than i planned in the first draft, so there might be more chapters in the end! 
> 
> once again, thank you for all your support! xo


	5. Chapter 5

“Damnit, he was still just a kid.” Lestrade snapped. They’d been standing silently around the figure on the examining table lost in their own thoughts, waiting for Sherlock to burst out with something brilliant. But instead of issuing a stream of scathing insults and astounding deductions, the detective was simply staring expressionlessly at the boy on the table. John could tell that something was really bothering him from the way he was holding tension in his shoulders and jaw. It wasn’t out of place for Molly, or even Lestrade to express anger or sadness at the more vulnerable victims that have passed through this room, but he’d never seen Sherlock so affected. Looking around, John realized that could see what no one else appeared to notice- that Sherlock Holmes really was capable of love.

The subject of Sherlock’s gaze was a beautiful and androgynous youth. His naturally dark, straight hair was dyed a deep shade of crimson. His delicate features were accentuated with a touch of eyeliner and the barest hint of a deep red stain on his now forever pale lips. John heard Molly Hooper arrive, then stand hesitantly in the doorway fidgeting nervously, toying with her messy side-ponytail and pushing up her large tortoiseshell glasses. Sherlock ignored her for as long as he could stand- which was about four minutes- before he snapped. “Yes, Molly, do come in and share whatever dazzling insights you’re sure to provide.”

“Sherlock,” John warned out of habit, though as far as Sherlock’s interactions with Molly were, that was rather tame. He must really be distracted.

Molly didn’t seem to notice. She was blushing- rather more than normal- and couldn’t quite make eye contact with either of them. It dawned on John that she’d seen The Picture, and John assumed that probably by now everyone else they knew had too. Apparently they’d have to get used to this, if they ever managed to actually get together. Better to get the awkwardness out of the way now, he supposed. He went over and placed his hand on Sherlock’s lower back, partly proving the rumors true, partly offering him gentle comfort. Sherlock did seem to relax a little under his touch. Molly noticed too and blushed an impossibly darker shade of red. John waited for her to process what was happening, and it only took a few seconds. She blinked away the tears that had been threatening to spill, then she nodded her head sharply. When she raised her head to speak, she looked resolved. John felt bad being so brazen, but enough was enough and Molly was just going to get hurt if she continued to nurse this adolescent crush on Sherlock. Anyway, even though John knew she contained a lot of hidden depths, even if Sherlock had returned her interest he’d eat her alive. She took a deep breath and began reading from her chart, “He’s Eli- Eli Guerrero. He was only twenty. Cause of death was exsanguination- same as the others.”

Lestrade looked at the file in his hand. “He's from Hackney. He was reported missing in 1983- he was sixteen. Looks like the lazy bastards working his case wrote him up as a runaway and closed it within a couple of weeks. His parents didn’t seem to press the issue.”

“It probably wasn’t so nice for him, being who he looks like he was.” Molly sounded sincerely sad.

“Probably not,” Lestrade agreed. “Well, it seems he was pretty well-known in the club scene in recent years. He’s got a couple of minor infractions, all in or near the clubs.”

“He is- was so pretty. I bet he was really popular,” Molly added dreamily. “Oh, Sherlock, maybe you-”

“Yes, Molly. I knew him.” Sherlock’s tone made it clear that he had no interest in elucidating. 

“Oh- okay, yeah… um-”

Lestrade interrupted her, “He was last seen at the Batcave. That’s one we haven’t been investigating. Do you think it’s a lead, Sherlock?”

“Most likely not. Everyone goes to the Batcave, it’s the most popular goth club in London. I’m certain that all of Drusilla’s victims have been there at one time or another, but they won’t recruit from there. Too obvious.” 

“Okay, then. So, we’re basically just waiting then for them to kill again now, yeah? This kid-”

“Eli,” Sherlock stated coldly.

“Right, yeah- Eli seems to be Drusilla’s victim, so now it’ll be Spike’s turn.”

“Drusilla won’t be satisfied with just one victim. And now they’re fixated on me- don’t fret, John. That was the plan, after all. No, they’ll be back for me before Spike gets a turn. It’s Sunday, Cities in Dust will be closed until Thursday. They may wait to try again at the club, but it’s more likely that they’ll be too impatient and they’ll make a move sooner- especially when they see our write-up in the paper. I don’t think they knew who I was last night, but now that they know I consult with the police they’ll be impatient to get me out of the way, and to prove their superiority over such mundane 'human' institutions. My guess is that they’ll come after us in a couple of days. No matter, I’m formulating a plan. I’ll be ready for them.”

“What do you need from us?” asked Lestrade. 

“I’ll be in touch.” With that, Sherlock turned and strode out the door, coat billowing behind him dramatically.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue too,” John shrugged and followed him out, assuming Molly and Lestrade were accustomed by now to Sherlock’s poor manners. He caught up to Sherlock about halfway down the hall and grabbed his sleeve. “Hey-”

Sherlock stopped and turned toward him, eyebrows raised.

John wasn’t sure how to start. “So, you knew him?”

"Yes, I’ve known him since he came into the scene. He was very naive- I felt it necessary to help him acclimate. It was obvious that he had nowhere else to go, so he needed a helping hand. It’s not a very safe world for the very young, especially when they look like he did. Most people are not predators but the few that are can be rather persistent.” 

“Did you- were you and he… never mind.”

“No, John. I merely helped him. I have no interest in taking advantage of those unable to provide informed consent.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s alright, I haven’t been very forthcoming about details about my previous life. I’m sure you have many assumptions that I’ll prove wrong.” He gave John a half-smile, then his expression changed to something sinister. “He was in my homeless network. He may have been targeted.”

“Oh.” 

“They know who we are now- that was the point of enlisting the paparazzi. But I didn’t count on them targeting my people so quickly.” Sherlock sounded irate now. 

“Could it be coincidence?”

“John, haven’t you learned anything? There’s no such thing. No, this was revenge for last night.”

“There’s something about them, Sherlock. Something off.”

“You mean aside from the fact that they’re pretending to be vampires and bleeding people dry?”

“Well, maybe. I don’t know. They just give me the creeps.”

John expected a snide remark, but instead Sherlock put his arms around him and pulled him closely into an embrace. He leaned his head onto John’s and spoke into his hair. “We’ll be careful. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hello! i'm in california, enjoying friends, sea, and sun! but i couldn't leave y'all hanging so here's a short but sweet chapter. emphasis on sweet <3 i hope you're all having a great week, and i'll see you again next thursday! thanks again for reading and support!


	6. Chapter 6

Two days passed without any sign of Drusilla or Spike. Sherlock sulked and lay on the couch in his trademark drooping pajama bottoms and silk robes. John made tea, tried to convince Sherlock to eat, and tried very hard not to think about what was under said drooping pajama bottoms and silk robes- or when exactly he’d finally be able to do the things he was trying very hard not to think about doing. 

It turned out that two days was as long as Sherlock’s patience could hold out. Late Wednesday morning, after hours of cursing at John for having the nerve to breathe in the same room as him, he erupted off of the couch and flew into his room. John heard him throwing things about for a few minutes before he stormed back out, thrusting a black paper bag at John. “We’re going out tonight. Here are appropriate clothes, “ he barked

“But I thought Cities in Dust wasn’t open again until Thursday?”

“There ARE other clubs in London, John. Do keep up.”

John gave him a half-hearted glare. Of course he was supposed to have somehow known that now they were investigating other locations. 

“I gather I’ll have to spell this out for you. There haven’t been any victims for two days. Therefore they must be waiting for me, trying to draw me out. So we’ll go out tonight. We’ll have the upper hand if we provoke them- be able to set the stage, so to speak. You will need to act the part of the jealous lover once they confront us. The blond man is extremely emotionally volatile and easily goaded. He will be careless if enraged. I imagine you’ll have no difficulty with this. You have been sitting around here pining for two days, and you’re primed to react possessively when challenged. That you are my lover, no one in London doubts. In case you’re not aware, we’ve had quite a lot of write-ups in the local queercore zines. The community is really quite celebratory over the revelation that we have a romantic relationship.” 

John wondered when Sherlock had the time to acquire this information and quickly realized Sherlock must have been out while he was sleeping. The thought of Sherlock cruising the clubs aroused the first spark of the jealousy that Sherlock had asked for him to show. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, adding, “I’m glad to see that you have abandoned your tedious habit of insisting upon your heterosexuality in the public sphere.” 

Sure enough, the thought hadn’t even crossed John’s mind. Sherlock wasn’t finished trying to invoke John’s jealousy, though. He lowered his eyelids seductively and in his most velvet voice said, “Also many of them seem to be obsessed with the- quote- ‘absolute edibility of my ass’. I must admit, I couldn’t have asked for better fake-vampire bait had I written it myself.” Sherlock paused, then smirked. “Frankly, John, I’m disappointed in you. You’ve got a wide readership. You could have been lauding the merits of my backside for months.”

John choked out something between a laugh and a groan. At this point, he was absolutely certain that Sherlock was just fucking with him. He reasoned that Sherlock must get some sort of thrill watching him squirm. Who knows, maybe it was his idea of foreplay. Nevertheless, John couldn’t disagree with the reviews. Sherlock was giving him that look that meant he thought John was being mentally deficient. He must want a response, then. All of a sudden, he remembered that HE was supposed to be the one who was good at this stuff. How the hell did Sherlock get the upper hand? He resolved, then and there, not to be out-flirted by Sherlock Holmes. The game, as they said, was on.

“Got it. Play up being your jealous lover because everyone wants to eat your ass.”

Sherlock flushed, but just barely. “I’m sure you’ll be brilliant.”

John stared heatedly at Sherlock’s long, long neck and tried to mentally project to his not-quite-psychic-but-very-astute flatmate what sort of calling card he’d like to leave there for any ‘vampires’. “Oh, you have no idea. What’s mine is mine, and I don’t leave any room for doubt on that account.” 

Sure enough, Sherlock unconsciously brought his fingertips up to his carotid artery, gently, and licked his lips. John considered this point his. Before Sherlock could sneak in the last word, John picked up his journal, saying he’d be upstairs working on his next article until they left.

 

.................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

 

The day felt endless, but eventually John found himself once again gawking at his reflection in the mirror. This time, Sherlock had him wearing an outfit that could have been copied directly from a Tom of Finland picture, and he managed to absolutely look the part. He’d never really been attracted to other men in chaps, but wearing them was definitely inflaming his rapidly increasing sexual frustration. He took a moment and fantasised about how fucking amazing it would be to be wearing these as he dominated Sherlock, as he forced him onto his knees and his brilliant mouth into silence with his cock. Or, he imagined, if he were to take off the denim he was wearing beneath the chaps then Sherlock would have such easy access to force him over a table, or to take him in a bathroom stall at the clubs where he knew men did such things. He’d always been a switch. He really didn’t give a rat’s arse who was taking control as long as his partner was satisfied- and they always were. Maybe he’d have to insist on keeping this outfit- John was certain that they could find all sorts of uses for the chaps. He sighed. If he didn’t stop this train of thought then he wouldn’t be able to wear the jeans comfortably for much longer. He gave himself one last look-over. He was, by Sherlock’s request, shirtless, wearing a well-cut leather vest. He smoothed his hand over it, and his bare nipples tingled at roughness of the inside of the leather. He’d been unsurprised by the gun holster hidden inside, and took the cue to go armed. It was encouraging, he thought, that Sherlock had taken the time to imagine, then procure this ensemble. It fit him perfectly, as though it was made just for him. That meant that Sherlock had not only been out collecting gossip at night, he’d gone to a shop and ordered everything John was wearing, tailored exactly to his specifications. He’d envisioned John in this outfit, and gone through a lot of trouble to make it happen. As he finished lacing up his boots, John wondered if Sherlock was intentionally showing his hand. The trouble with Sherlock was that one never knew his intentions, and he did have a way of trampling over other people's emotions in the quest of fulfilling his own objectives. Nevertheless, John didn't think that Sherlock, if he knew how much this meant to John, would lead him on. He steeled his nerve. There was only one way to find out, really. They’d been dancing around each other for months, but this case had pushed John over the edge. If he was wrong- well, they’d figure it out. But he was, at this point, fairly confident that he was not wrong and that it was long overdue they did something about it.

He went downstairs with big intentions, but stilled as soon as he saw Sherlock, staring in speechless wonder. Sherlock’s makeup was subtle, he’d chosen to only line his eyes, and to do something that made his skin look downright translucent. His hair was perfectly ratted again, a dark halo transforming him into a vision of a fallen angel. He was wearing the same leather trousers as before, but John didn’t really notice of a single one of these details. His attention was fixated on the fact that Sherlock had also omitted to wear a shirt. Instead, he wore a simple leather collar with an attached chain leash looped in his hand. And he was wearing John’s dog tags.

“In case- anyone- was still uncertain,” Sherlock whispered into the heavy silence. 

John too overwhelmed to move. He must have hesitated too long, though, because Sherlock was studying his face with a look of uncertainty and vulnerability that nearly broke John’s heart. He desperately wanted to allay Sherlock’s fears by storming over and claiming what was his. But he waited to move, giving himself time to first show Sherlock what he was thinking, dropping all of his defenses and hiding nothing from Sherlock’s penetrating scrutiny. He let Sherlock see everything- everything that he needed, everything that he felt, everything that he was desperate- but afraid- to say and do. The moment drew on as they regarded each other silently, mutually recognizing that this thing that was about to happen- that needed to happen- was too important to be taken lightly. This was more than just casual sex. This was more than mutual physical attraction, gratification. This was Them.

Finally, Sherlock seemed to be satisfied with what he saw. His eyes blazed and he growled triumphantly as he took the three steps that had been all that separated them. He swooped down, grabbing John’s face and crushing their mouths into a maelstrom of finally- blissfully- requited passion. And it was everything. John didn’t hesitate now, throwing himself into reciprocating the frantic movements of Sherlock’s very clever, very talented tongue. Teeth scraped against teeth, lips slid and sucked and consumed. John slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him closer, trying desperately to eliminate any remaining space between them. He slid his hands higher up Sherlock’s back, pulling their chests together. Sherlock hadn’t let go of his face, and John pressed into his hands, relishing the feel of Sherlocks’s long, violin-calloused fingers against his stubble. John finally had to turn his head aside to gasp for air, eliciting a very typically Sherlockian huff. But as John latched onto Sherlock’s neck, acting on his earlier fantasy and marking Sherlock exactly where he’d stroked earlier, the petulant huff turned into a low moan, which John decided immediately was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He released Sherlock’s neck, glancing at his handiwork and moving his hand toward Sherlock’s arse when Sherlock grabbed John’s arms and stilled.

“John, case,” he said breathlessly.

“Bugger the case.” 

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arms, “I have never been so irritated by a serial killer.”

John laughed, breaking the tension of the moment. He took a deep breath and adjusted himself in his jeans. “Well, then finish up this case quick please. I’d like to get back to this as soon as possible.”

Sherlock reached up and ran his thumb over John’s kiss-swollen bottom lip and said in his deep baritone voice, “After this case, I have a list of things that we are going to. A very long list. It may take days or weeks to accomplish the entire list- longer if you require food and sleep as you so tediously do. But I am a genius, after all. The ways that I can imagine making you orgasm are nearly infinite. ”

John’s face was flushed, and his jeans were tight again from just listening to Sherlock talk about sex. He mentally added Sherlock’s voice to his list of kinks. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Oh John, you’re so much more fun than a corpse.”

They smiled at each other, an easy smile that was somehow also loaded with promise. They’d be fine. John took a deep breath and decided that one of them had to be the first to move. He took the initiative, grabbing the leash hanging from Sherlock’s collar and leading him out to get a cab. 

“Wait, John.”

John turned around, half hoping that Sherlock would maul him again, but instead Sherlock reached into the chair cushion and brought out his riding crop. He handed it to John and said, smirking, “One must always remember to accessorise appropriately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm-mm-mm, finally some action for y’all, just a tease though for what’s to come once our genius detective wraps up the case. I’m so sorry it took so long to put up the next chapter. Life stuff really tripped me up the last couple of weeks, but I pinky swear that I’m back on track! Thanks for your patience! xo


	7. Chapter 7

The cab driver hadn’t even given them a second glance, an aspect of living in London that John was extremely grateful for- he hadn’t really thought through how they would look to the random observer. Now, nestled into the backseat, John began to worry about what the night had in store. They’d been so wrapped up in their personal tension that he’d nearly forgotten that they were about to go confront two psychopaths who had slaughtered dozens of innocent people.

“So, Sherlock, what’s the plan then?”

“The plan is to capture these people as quickly as possible and then return to our flat to finish what we started.”

“Quit trying to distract me. How exactly are we going to capture Spike and Drusilla?”

“John, do you trust me?”

“Of course I do, you prat. How can you honestly ask me that after all we’ve been through? Don’t I follow you blindly- into all sorts of questionable situations? And sometimes even dressed like a perverted cowboy?”

“John. I’m deadly serious. Do you trust me?”

John sobered at the tone of the question. He sounded- worried? Hesitant? John wasn’t sure where this uncertainty was coming from, but it was totally out of character for the detective. He took Sherlock’s hand, saying solemnly, “I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone in my life.”

Sherlock nodded, still looking uneasy. “Good. We are going to let them lead us to their lair tonight, letting them believe that I am their willing victim. Since your acting skills are- lacking-” John punched him in the arm halfheartedly, but Sherlock continued as though uninterrupted. “You will act as though you are coming along to humor me, and to protect me, but that you don’t believe in the legitimacy of their claim to vampirism.”

“Seriously? We’re going to just run off with some ‘vampires’? That’s your big plan?”

“ I need to see the crime scene, John. I don’t have enough information to work out how they’re pulling this off. You should prepare yourself, however- it is unlikely that Lestrade and the others will be able to track us- oh, don’t give me that look, John. I called him while you were upstairs getting ready. I told him to put a full detail at the club.”

John narrowed his eyes skeptically.

“I DID call, John. I knew you’d insist upon it. Also, I really would like to catch these irritating serial killers so that we can resume our earlier activities. But in the likelihood that I’m correct and that they lose us, I assume you found the hidden feature in your vest and accessorised appropriately. I’ll need you to not hesitate, when the time comes. They are ruthless killers, and we might have to fight for our lives tonight. Are you still willing to come along?”

“What’s the alternative? That you go into this alone? No way I’d ever let that happen. I’m in. But don’t you think you’re underestimating the Yard just a bit? They may not have your superiour deductive abilities, but they are rather good at their jobs despite your scathing reviews.”

“They won’t be able to keep up. Spike and Drusilla will be expecting them and will have taken precautions. These may be the most cunning killers I’ve ever encountered, John. Nothing will get past Drusilla. I still can’t work out how they have managed to kill so many people in such a short time without accomplices, but I’m absolutely certain she is the mastermind behind the operation.”

“So maybe there are other people? Are you sure it’s a good idea to let them take us to where there might be an ambush lurking?”

“No, John, they’re working alone. It’s too personal- it’s their intimate game. There must be an explanation. Unfortunately, the only ones I have been able to come up with as yet are impossibilities.”

“What? That they’re actually vampires?”

“Obviously that cannot be true. I will get to the bottom of it, John. Hopefully before we arrive at their ‘lair’.”

“I think we should wait, Sherlock. You’re actually scaring me a bit here.”

“The longer we wait, the more people will die. We will act tonight. I have three possible theories and one of them must be true. I’ve prepared for each potentiality. We will escape, unscathed.”

“Sherlock-”

“You said you trusted me. Please, John. I can’t sit around waiting for them to act again, and if I’m certain of anything they will. Eli was a warning and a taunt. I can’t let any more of my associates get hurt.”

“Ohhh. I see now. You think they’re going to target me.”

Sherlock looked out of the window silently.

“What aren’t you telling me, Sherlock? Trust has to go both ways, you know.”

Sherlock sighed. “I received a package earlier. It was a doll fashioned to look like you, John. It bore the same marks on its neck as all of the victims. It was a warning- a summons. I considered leaving you out of this, but eventually determined that we were more likely to survive this together.”

“Damn right, Sherlock. How could you even think that I’d be okay with being left behind?”

“I knew you would be angry, but I thought it would be worth the risk if it kept you safe.” Sherlock looked chagrined, but determined.

John pushed down his anger. He knew Sherlock wasn’t used to considering others’ feelings, and that he was trying. But he also knew that he had to make himself very clear, lest the detective get any ideas in the future. “If something had happened to you, and I hadn’t had even a chance to prevent it, I wouldn’t be safe. Not from myself. I would have carried that guilt with me forever.”

“Then it’s a good job you’re here now, John.” 

The cab arrived at Kali before John had a chance to press the issue. Sherlock manifested some bills from a mysterious hidden location and tossed them at the driver. They climbed out onto the kerb. “Into the fray, John,” Sherlock said as he handed the leash over.

John looked up at Sherlock and decided that maybe he did, in fact, need to get his point across a bit more firmly. He began slowly tugging the chain, hand over hand, reeling the detective in close, until they were pressed close together. John reached up and pulled Sherlock’s mouth down onto his, kissing him deeply, possessively. Sherlock didn’t struggle, but neither did it seem like his mind was on their kiss. John pressed in tighter, opening his mouth wider and practically devouring Sherlock’s lips, sucking them into his insistent mouth one at a time, pushing in with his tongue provocatively. When Sherlock began to whimper, and John had to give in to mundane necessities like breathing, he pulled back and pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Promise that you’ll never leave me behind, Sherlock,” he murmured. 

“John-”

“I mean it. If we’re going to do this thing, no more secrets. No more running off into danger alone. It’s both of us together, or not at all.”

Sherlock nodded, his ratted curls brushing against John’s cheek. “Against the world,” he whispered.

“Okay, then. Let’s go get the bad guys.” 

They broke apart reluctantly, though neither seemed willing to forsake contact altogether. They grazed fingertips as they headed into the nightclub. As usual, Sherlock seemed to posses the sort of A-list magic that allowed them to bypass the queue. As they passed the crowds of people waiting their turn to enter, John was relieved to recognize several Yarders. 

“Hey Sherlock, these folks look a bit different from the crowd at Cities in Dust.

“This club caters to a diverse group of subcultures, John. Kali has three floors, each with its own atmosphere.”

“I’m no expert on subculture, but don’t some of these groups actually brawl with one other?”

“Yes, in general the Rude Boys aren’t big fans of the goths or the gays, and the punks don’t really like anyone, but here there’s a sort of unspoken truce. Conflict is kept to a minimum on club grounds, else you aren’t invited back. And everyone wants to keep their welcome at Kali.”

They were climbing a set of stairs as they spoke, a strange in-between world where stragglers lurked smoking, and the music from the different floors melded into an unintelligible din. Sherlock stopped and asked a girl with foot-long green spikes spouting in every direction from her head for a cigarette, ignoring John’s dirty look. “Ta,” he said as she handed him one with a look of practiced disdain. They climbed up to the next landing, and before John could bring up the issue of Sherlock’s smoking habit, he uncoiled a scrap of paper from around the cigarette. “Homeless network,” he muttered, scanning the unfurled note. 

“So you won’t be needing the fag, then?” Just because they dressed in bondage gear and went out clubbing now didn’t mean John was going to let Sherlock think he could smoke too.

Sherlock gave a longing look at the cigarette before tucking it behind his ear. “They’re here. Second floor. That’s a lounge area- dark, with a lot of nooks and alcoves. It’s too dangerous to confront them there. Let’s make them come to us, somewhere a bit more public. While I want them to feel as though they have control over the situation, I don’t want to actually give them the advantage. Let’s stop here at the first level and dance a while, John. They’ll hear of our arrival soon enough, if they haven’t already. But the longer we make them wait, the more time Lestrade will have to position his people.” 

As he spoke, Sherlock was leading him through a curtained doorway into a loud, pulsating room. They made their way to the bar and Sherlock used his magic to lure the bartender’s attention away from the clamoring crowd to order drinks. He pressed a pint into John’s hand, coiling his other arm around John’s waist. “Let’s get into character, shall we?” he rumbled into John’s ear, taking the opportunity to nip at his earlobe. John shivered in response, pressing back into Sherlock. Trust Sherlock to intuit that his earlobes were one of his most erogenous spots, though it seemed like basically anywhere Sherlock touched him was now an erogenous zone. Needing little encouragement, John downed his pint, slamming the empty glass on the bar. He turned around and gripped Sherlock’s hip tightly, likely leaving finger-shaped bruises, and began nibbling a line across Sherlock’s exposed clavicle. He reached up and slipped his fingers beneath the black leather collar, really appreciating how beautifully it contrasted against the pale expanse of Sherlock’s neck. He twisted the collar a bit, causing Sherlock to gasp at the sudden obstruction of his airflow. He pulled Sherlock lower, and began sucking a trail up the straining tendons to the marks he’d made earlier, gently nipping and lapping with his tongue and teeth. He was trying to go slowly, to employ all of his tools of seduction, but it was torture. He lost patience and latched on hard, causing Sherlock to press his neck deeper into John’s mouth, moaning and grinding a hint of an erection into John’s hip.

“John,” he gasped.

“Mmm,” John had relocated his efforts, and was busy teasing his way down Sherlock’s pectoral muscle, leaving a trail of reddening marks in his wake. 

“John-” Sherlock tried again to get his attention, but John was decidedly distracted, pressing Sherlock against the bar and nudging his own growing cock into Sherlock’s thigh. He was beginning to formulate a military-grade strategy for how they could probably find a moment to dip into the nearest bathroom, or even an alley, when Sherlock roared and pushed him away firmly.

“Serial killers,” Sherlock moaned, looking absolutely wrecked, and John thought fuzzily that nothing had ever sounded so seductive. Coming back to himself, John preened a bit at the fact that he could have such an effect on his normally unaffected friend simply by making out at a bar. He gave one last longing look at Sherlock’s mouth, forcing himself to focus on what it was saying. “I appreciate your- enthusiasm, John. But unfortunately we’ll have to save whatever you were planning for after we’ve finished this,” he said, eyes still a bit glazed.

John took a few deep breaths. “You did tell me to act possessive,” he laughed, studying his handiwork.

“And you’re doing a fantastic job. Brilliant, in fact. However, we need to be able to focus on the task at hand, and I find that I’m having a difficult time with that while you are grinding this-” he ran his hand lightly over John’s straining prick- “into my leg.”

“Noted. Stopping this-” John pressed harder into Sherlock’s hand- “right now.”

Sherlock growled, a deeply animalistic sound, and John thought fleetingly that he’d like to hear Sherlock make that noise for the rest of his life. In fact, as soon as they got back home, he was going to take a page from Sherlock’s book and begin categorising every noise he could pull from Sherlock. He’d make charts. Graphs. Right now, though, he had to stop looking at Sherlock, else he’d never be able to focus. He glanced around, suddenly feeling self-conscious. It seemed, though, that most people seemed to be somewhere on a scale from ignoring them to wanting to take them home. Although he was rather pleased to see an extremely horrified-looking Anderson gaping at them from across the bar.

“Seems like not everyone appreciates the show,” John giggled, indicating Anderson’s presence with his thumb.

“Nothing we could ever do in public would be even close to the crime that is his attempt at undercover attire.”

“Well, at least it’s put me off sex for the time being. Or maybe forever. I could have lived a thousand lifetimes without seeing him in a mesh vest.” 

“Indeed.” Sherlock scanned the room. “We should dance. Although we’re doing a fair job of attracting attention as we are, we’ll be more exposed if we’re on the dance floor, and I want to be able to have the advantage of as many pairs of eyes on us as possible.”

“I was hoping I’d get to see you dance again,” John smiled.

Sherlock looked back at John, “Whenever you desire.”

“You’re not helping me focus on the case.”

“Well, then, I’ll keep it tame.”

“As if you could.”

Still teasing one another with both wordplay and touch, they started toward the raised dance floor. As they walked up the illuminated stairs, the haunting notes of a violin rang out over the crowd. People from dark corners began filling every empty space, dancing to the unearthly music. Sherlock took John’s hand and found an opening where they were able to fit into the ocean of bodies. John was unsurprised that Sherlock knew the song, or that he sang along into John’s ear whenever they came together in the dance.

I find you in the morning  
After dreams of distant signs  
You pour yourself over me  
Like the sun through the blinds

You lift me up  
And get me out  
Keep me walking  
But never shout

Hold the secret close  
I hear you say-

John danced with an abandon he hadn’t known himself capable of, sober anyway. But as he danced, his mind raced. On one hand, he was alert and ready for the confrontation. Sherlock’s performance of vulnerability was definitely provoking the soldier simmering always just beneath John’s surface. At the same time, though, he was struggling to push away the fringe thoughts of self-consciousness that were doing their best to creep into his mind and distract him. The soldier was winning, though. Logically, he reasoned, even though Sherlock had found a place here, once, with these beautiful people- maybe even admired a few of them- the fact of the matter was, what they had together- now- was all that mattered. He’d opened his home and his head and his heart to John, and that was not something the reclusive detective did lightly. And John would do anything in his power to protect him.

On and on it goes  
Calling like a distant wind  
Through the zero hour we'll walk  
We'll cut the thick and break the thin  
No sound to break no moment clear  
When all the doubts are crystal clear  
Crashing hard into the secret wind…

 

This wasn’t the most romantic song, John thought idly, scanning the crowd. Maybe, though- he amended as he returned to watching Sherlock singing, eyes closed dreamily- it was the most romantic thing he’d ever heard. If he was feeling poetic, he’d maybe describe it as being made of broken promises, wounded hearts, and the turmoil that was the fear and longing to do it again. If he was feeling poetic. He laughed to himself. This place was really bringing out his inner goth. Sherlock opened his eyes to see John laughing and dancing. Eyes blazing, he slowly bowed his head down seized John’s mouth with his own. So much for not making out.

It's o.k.  
It goes this way  
The line is thin  
It twists away  
Cuts you up  
And spits you out  
Keeps you walking  
But never shout

John was growing dizzy with heat and lust and a little bit of asphyxiation. Sherlock pulled off, slowly, and sighed. John was still collecting his wits when he saw Sherlock fix his attention somewhere behind him. He watched as Sherlock’s face affected an expression of pure irritation. Just as quickly as it was there, though, it was replaced with a smug grin. With an almost inappropriate amount of childlike delight Sherlock looked at John and said, “Showtime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh life, always thwarting my best plans to just sit and update this. Sorry again for the delay! I have shortened a couple of chapters, now, or rather they've broken off and taken on lives of their own. So the entire story will be extended to more than eight chapters. Perhaps it will be ten- who knows? I've always known where this story was going, but I was never entirely certain of the route. 
> 
> Anyway, a couple of random things… 
> 
> I absolutely know that in our story, we’re two years early for Mr Peter Murphy’s Cuts You Up. Don’t care. I just love it too much to not have our boys dance to it.
> 
> On a personal note, Kali is loosely based on Medusa, an all-ages, multi-story club in chicago that I was fortunate enough to get to experience a few times before it closed. At 16, I was probably much too young to be there- and have a couple of stories that might support that claim- but I was much too young for a lot of the things I would do in my life and I have no regrets at all. I doubt that any place will ever be like it again. The world has changed so significantly. The internet is wonderful and wild but it also means the death of the real underground- or maybe I’m just old and out of the loop. In 1997, a new version of Medusa opened up. I was long gone from chicago by then, so I don’t know how it compared, but anecdotal stories tell me that it wasn’t what it was. Nothing ever is. Anyway, this chapter is an homage to this place out of time, for all its wonder and flaws. 
> 
> Here’s a link to read about it. I love primary source accounts of things, and this is a really great one-
> 
> https://www.residentadvisor.net/features/1917
> 
> Lastly, in an attempt at British continuity, the first floor is the second floor in 'murica, the second is the third, etc. Also I tried to remember all my s's and u's. Apologies to the fine people of the UK for anything I've gotten wrong.


	8. Chapter 8

Drusilla and Spike wasted no time tonight, ignoring the longing stares and groping hands of the other dancers as they stalked directly over to John and Sherlock. John wondered how he could have, even briefly, considered Spike attractive as he watched him slink and slither with the most self-assured, smarmy expression on his face. In contrast with Sherlock’s natural grace and commanding presence, this guy was bootleg. Maybe his overconfidence was largely derived from his association with Drusilla.  
Drusilla, though. She seemed to have transformed completely from their previous meeting. Last time she’d had something of a childlike demeanor beneath her sensuality and power, but tonight she emanated nothing but pure purpose and rage. She strode inhumanly lithely toward John and Sherlock, reaching them within moments of their noticing her arrival. Spike followed her, remaining just a step behind a bit subserviently, but taunting them as soon as they were within hearing range.  
“Game’s up, lads. Time to pay the piper.”  
“That’s an erroneous cliché for the circumstance, as we have not struck any sort of bargain for us to be indebted to you.”  
“Oh, that’s cute, ain’t it Dru? He thinks he's so clever.”  
“Mmm, Spike. Little tiger kitten is clever. But he thinks his teeth are so big. They could be, though, right Spike? We can give him fangs and we can give him claws. Give him all his lives back. Make him a proper tiger. Do you think he deserves it, Spike?”  
“I don’t know, Dru, from everything I’ve heard he’s a right prat. I’m not sure I want him around all that much.”  
Drusilla grimaced, emitting a low moan which gave way to a long, high pitched whine, and stomped her foot petulantly. It was all John could do to not roll his eyes at the sudden childish display, but found strength in the fact that Sherlock still seemed to have his wits about him. In fact, he seemed to be rather enjoying the whole thing.  
“I’ll come with you, Drusilla,” he purred, giving her his most charming fake smile, not the one that made the little creases around his eyes that only John got to see. “Of course I’ll come with you.”  
“Right, where he goes, I go,” John added, really not finding it much of a stretch to play the jealous lover.  
Drusilla looked at him with surprised interest. “Oh, you want to be my little disco dolly, don’t you? Hmmm,” she purred, looking him over thoughtfully. “You might even be more fun to turn than my tiger.” Before she’d even finished her thought, though, her attention faltered and her gaze returned to Sherlock. John thought he was relieved to be not worthy of her scrutiny, until he realized it wasn’t much better that she had Sherlock so firmly in her sights.  
“Alright then, Dru, what are we hanging around here for? Let’s get these pretty new dollies of yours back to the lair.” Spike chomped his teeth at Drusilla as punctuation. John tried hard not to laugh at the overdramatic use of the word “lair.”  
Drusilla started giggling, though her eyes remained cold and piercing, boring into Sherlock with a greedy stare that made John’s blood run cold. She twirled around with delight several times, then took Sherlock and John each by the hand, leading them toward the exit. John still wasn’t entirely sure what exactly he was supposed to be doing in this charade but decided that he should just keep following Sherlock, who was effortlessly maintaining his glamoured affectation and following Drusilla like a love-struck puppy. John was looking forward to the fact that half of the Yard was waiting outside to back them up, but as soon as they got out of the door Drusilla yanked them into an alley and began pulling them almost inhumanly quickly down the narrow twists and turns of the London streets. John quickly lost hope that anyone would be able to keep up, or even find them. John could barely keep up with her himself, and only could because her grip on them was so strong that he had no choice but to strain his legs as far as he could while desperately trying not to trip and fall. John was almost certain that he was going to asphyxiate by the time she pulled them into one last alley, deep in a desolate area of town that he was unfamiliar with, when she finally stopped and released them, tossing them with an impressive amount of force against a wall. She spun around and hissed at them.  
Spike, who looked like he’d barely exerted any effort keeping up with them, appeared and grabbed Sherlock by the throat.  
“Did you think we didn’t know about your planted coppers? Eh? That the muppet wouldn’t know what you were doing? Well, fooled you din’ I? No one knows where you are. No one will find you.”  
“Hush, Spike. Shhhh. That’s no way to treat my dolly, jealous boy.”  
Spike snarled, but obediently released Sherlock. John was relieved- he was afraid he was going to have to use deadly force before Sherlock got the information that he wanted, and he wasn’t certain if not solving the case would put Sherlock off sex that night and was glad he didn’t have to take the risk. As he was struggling to regain control over his simmering rage, Drusilla leaped impossibly high and brought down the stair to a fire escape above her head and shocked his anger right out of him.  
“Upsy-daisy, loves,” Spike cackled, herding them over and up the ladder after Drusilla.  
Seeing no other choice, John shook his head and followed after Sherlock, who had wasted no time in chasing Drusilla up the ladder, over several rooftops, and into whatever trap they had waiting.  
The “lair” turned out to be an empty hotel, hidden deep inside several blocks of abandoned buildings. John was beginning to think that the Yard wouldn’t actually be able to find them, and that they might die here after all. But by the looks of things, though, at least they’d be going out in style. Abandoned or no, this was the poshest hotel John had ever been in. Only the piles of mutilated dolls, the telltale rust colored stains on the upholstery, and the faint coppery odor in the air gave any indication that this was the scene of violent murders and not just the passive crime of excessive wealth and luxury.  
“Welcome, mates. I’d say you should make yourself at home, maybe grab yourself a bite to eat, but you’re the snack tonight.” Spike sneered, walking up to Sherlock and sniffing his carotid artery.  
“Spiiiike…” Drusilla reprimanded. “What did we talk about giving the dolly a choice? We did talk about this before we went out.”  
“Dru, you used to be a lot more fun. Let’s just eat them.”  
“No, Spike. Down!” She slapped at his face playfully.  
“C’mon, Dru. At least let’s keep the one that doesn’t talk so much, kill the other.”  
“Hmmm, I don’t think so, love. Sherlock will be ever so fun when we turn him. The other one will be gloomy if we take away his humanity. Look at him, Spike. He loves it so much; wears it like armor. Sherlock, though. He’s already half-way here. And when he wakes up hungry and eats his boyfriend, oh now that will be something to see. My tiger will be the best pet a girl could hope for.” She looked at him approvingly. John felt like maybe they were trying to be insulting, but somehow instead felt a welling-up of pride that his humanity was so palpable that even- wait. He stopped as he realized he was actually entertaining the notion that these psychopaths were actually vampires.  
“Yes, turn me,” Sherlock pleaded, interrupting John’s thoughts. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this, for you.” John looked over and saw such sincerity in Sherlock’s face that even he believed that Sherlock was buying this whole ruse, and that he was yearning for an opportunity to become one of the undead. John wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to try to grab Sherlock and get out of here before something terrible happened. Before he could decide, though, Drusilla nodded her head once and smiled.  
“Oh, tiger, my eager little kitten. Don’t worry. Mummy will make you better. Stronger. And so beautiful, more beautiful than even you are now.”  
“Let’s just get on with it, pet, if you want to turn him by morning.”  
“My impatient Spike, always in a hurry.”  
“Dru-“  
She sighed. “I can’t wait until my tiger is ready and I have someone fun to play with.”  
“Well it won’t happen if you keep talking about it and not doing it, love.”  
John prepared himself to leap into action, as it seemed things were really coming to a head now. There’s no way Drusilla would be able to resist Spike’s goading for much longer, given her earlier displays of impulsive and reactive behaviour. He tried to catch Sherlock’s eye to establish contact and let the detective know that he was ready to act, but Sherlock was still fixated on Drusilla, looking a bit too eager for John’s liking.  
Basking in his rapt attention, she twirled around a few times, singing to herself and laughing with the sort of manic joy that only small children and the highly medicated are capable of. Spike leered at Sherlock as he and Drusilla slowly closed in on the detective. John took a tentative step backward, then another, trying to avoid notice. He stilled his breath, tensing his muscles and preparing to pull his gun and shoot them at the first signal from Sherlock, but when he realized that it seemed Sherlock was actually going along with this madness he decided that he was going to have to take matters into his own hands, despite near-certain recrimination from Sherlock later about foiling his plans. Banking on the fact that on occasion Sherlock admitted that he needed John to save him from his own arrogance and stupidity, John made the executive decision that this was one of those times. Who cares if they found out exactly how these monsters did it? They had basically had the killers caught red-handed and what they had was enough to justify acting in self-defense. John focused firmly on the expanding wave of calm that was filling his center, his anchor of stillness that prepared him for instant and decisive action.  
And then he lost his focus, and in fact, all sense of reason as Spike and Drusilla’s faces distorted into something that John’s mind had no reference for outside of half-remembered Sunday School images of demons. Their foreheads elongated and warped into grotesque ridges. Their eyes burned with glowing yellow fire. But most disturbingly, it looked like their teeth were growing into actual fangs! Sparing a moment to wonder if they’d been drugged, his typical steadfast demeanor and preparedness failed him and he fumbled backward and fell over his own feet onto the floor. There was no way he could have prepared himself for this. A rational part of his brain was trying to get his attention, insisting that this was likely some sort of fantastic special effects and that there was no way this was really happening, but it was silenced immediately when the creatures seemed to blink out of existence and reappeared directly behind Sherlock. John tore his eyes away from the monsters, looking to Sherlock in hopes of finding some sort of rational explanation, some hope, but instead saw him simply close his eyes serenely, tipping his neck as though inviting Drusilla’s impending bite.  
Actual monsters or no, seeing Sherlock in danger was all that it took to move John to action. He leaped up, ready to intercept Drusilla. But just before he reached her there was a thunderous crash. Sirens and lights filled the hotel lobby as a stream of police burst through the now-demolished doors and windows. John breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that he wasn’t going to have to deal with this alone. Before any of the cavalry reached them, though, John looked over and saw Drusilla whisper something in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock looked- angry? Disappointed? John was pulling himself back onto his feet, planning to head over and sort out what the hell Sherlock thought he was playing at, but decided that he would deal with that later as he watched their two captors practically scaling the walls to reach an upper-level window for escape. At this supernatural display, all but the most seasoned police had stopped in their tracks and were staring, stunned, as the couple seemed to fly up and out of their reach. Drusilla stopped for a moment, perched on the window sill, and looked back at John and Sherlock. Although she spoke in barely a whisper, John heard her voice clearly in his mind.  
“We’ll find you again. You know he deserves eternity, John. Let him go.”  
A few more level-headed of the force had stopped and taken aim with their guns, but not one of them managed to fire a shot before the two were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, and i'm back! i'm so sorry to make you all wait so long! i was wrestling with how to wrap this one up in one chapter and realized that what i really wanted to do with it couldn't be done that quickly. so here's an action chapter, prepare yourself for some feels next time. john and sherlock sure have a lot to talk about!
> 
> also, a few notes, "disco dolly" is a loose reference to one of the weirdest songs of a weird decade, "sex dwarf" by soft cell. listen to it sometime, it's a real trip.
> 
> anyway, i'll post up the next chapter soon, i'm on a roll now and don't want to leave this hanging forever. the thought of it looming is eating away at my ability to work on other projects without guilt lol


	9. Chapter 9

“What in the holy hell was that?” Lestrade shouted into the silence that filled the room after Drusilla and Spike’s vanishing act. “Sherlock? I know you’ve got to have some good story to tell here, mate. It’s drugs, right? It’s always drugs…”

“No, Lestrade, it’s not drugs,” Sherlock sighed, though his words didn’t carry their usual snark. 

“Then what, Sherlock? Help us out here.”

“As far as I can tell…” He trailed off, pausing long enough that John thought maybe he’d vanished into his mind palace. But when it looked like Lestrade was about to give up waiting for his revelation, Sherlock said thoughtfully, “There is no mundane explanation for anything we’ve seen here tonight.”

Lestrade gaped at him, obviously waiting for the inevitable “but” that usually followed Sherlock’s wildest assertions. When it didn’t come, he shook his head and began to take charge of the investigation at hand, probably assuming Sherlock had actually lost his mind this time. 

The next several hours were a veritable circus of the comings and goings of Scotland Yard’s crime scene investigators. It looked like the two killers had been holed up here for some time, and John imagined that they’d probably be really irritable now that their home had been discovered and dismantled into hundreds of tiny evidence bags. He glanced over at the pile of dolls nearest to him and shivered as he noticed details that he hadn’t before. He’d already noted that they all bore the signs of Drusilla’s rage. Some were missing their heads. Some had been gutted. Most of them were covered in blood. But what John found really eerie was that they all bore resemblance to the victims, though he hadn’t put that together until he saw a uniformed woman holding a dark-haired male doll wearing a trench coat.  
In the middle of the chaos, the real Sherlock stood silently observing the officers, though refraining from his typical stream of criticisms and admonitions. Occasionally he would look up wistfully at the window through which the “vampires” had vanished. 

The sun’s rays were just becoming visible when Sherlock snapped out of his trance and announced that he would be taking John home now. John flirted with the idea of being annoyed at Sherlock’s bossiness, but decided that they probably should be getting home. They had a few things to talk about.

The cab ride back was silent, and John wasn’t sure how to reach out to Sherlock, or if the detective even wanted him to. It was obvious to John that Sherlock had been shaken by the encounter with Drusilla and Spike, and while he could try and play it off as his typical surliness at being stumped by a case, John had been there and seen Sherlock ready to give up his life to the killers. He wasn’t completely certain that Sherlock actually believed that they were vampires, but either way it was breaking John’s heart that Sherlock would be so willing to throw away everything they had—or could have, if they’d ever get a chance—so easily. Sensing John’s unease, Sherlock reached over and gently took his hand, but continued staring out the window at the rising sun. 

When they arrived at 221B, Sherlock sighed and squeezed John’s hand before pulling out his wallet and calmly paying the fare. As soon as they entered the apartment, Sherlock went into the bathroom. John heard him turn on the shower and debated briefly whether to go check on him, but decided that if he’d wanted company then he would have given some indication. Instead, he went into the kitchen and put on the kettle, thinking tea would help. When it was ready he brought the two mugs into the living room, but found Sherlock already draped dramatically over the sofa, eyes far away and hands steepled in front of his face. John sighed and set the mug down next to Sherlock’s head in the slim chance that he would wake and want it before it went cold. Figuring that there was no sense in wasting his own cuppa, he sat in his chair and watched Sherlock thoughtfully, wondering what was going through that enigmatic mind right now and regretting that they weren’t enjoying the post-case activities he’d so been looking forward to. Eventually, though, all cups of tea end. John didn’t even bother putting his empty mug in the kitchen before climbing heavily up the stairs to his cold and empty bed.  
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

After a morning of turbulent dreams featuring vampires and war flashbacks, John woke up feeling not very well-rested. He contemplated trying for another few hours of sleep, but the fear of more nightmares kept him from trying. There didn’t seem to be any noise to indicate Sherlock had gotten up yet, but then again it was just as likely he had come out of his trance and left during John’s sleep. Just thinking that he’d gone out alone was enough to prompt John out of bed and downstairs, but Sherlock hadn’t moved.

Although he knew that Sherlock’s time in his mind palace was somewhat restorative, it was no substitute for actual sleep. As he stood there worrying about whether Sherlock would be refreshed enough to tackle what was sure to be another long night trying to apprehend Drusilla and Spike, Sherlock, without opening his eyes, seemed to read John’s mind and roused himself enough to say, “We will finish it tonight. And yes, I’ll take some new tea.” John’s nerves were nearly completely frayed from the stress of the last few days and the lack of sleep. A cold and demanding Sherlock was just about to enough to make him finally snap when the lounging detective opened his eyes and looked over at John, giving a shy, sheepish smile which caused his irritations to somehow magically melt away. 

“Prat,” he called affectionately over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen. 

John was deep in thought, going through the unconscious motions of domesticity when he felt Sherlock’s arms wrap around him. Despite all of his simmering anxieties and the uncertainty weighing heavily between them, he leaned back into the embrace, relaxing into the comfort Sherlock was offering. They stood there silently, savoring each other’s company long enough that John had to restart the kettle to finish the task he’d come into the kitchen for. Eventually, John spoke up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, Sherlock, but what if…” He hesitated, afraid the detective would laugh at him if he finished his thought.

“What if they’re really vampires?” Sherlock completed the question for him without a hint of laughter.

“It can’t be true though, right? There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“Oh John, again you see, but you do not observe.”

“What am I missing, Sherlock? Please tell me how there’s a rational explanation for what we saw. Please,” he was practically begging for some return to normalcy.

“John, I believe we’ve both had some strongly held misconceptions turned on their head this week,” Sherlock said, taking John’s arms and turning him until they were facing one another. “If it’s possible that you love me, then how is it any less possible that there are creatures on this earth who live in the darkness and must consume blood to live?”

“Sherlock, how can you honestly believe that it’s so hard to love you?” 

“Surely, you more than anyone are aware of my many faults.” 

With this last statement, Sherlock’s face had become unreadable. But John was learning that the detective used emotional distance as armor and that his words belied a vulnerability that ran right through to his core. John stood up taller and looked directly into Sherlock’s warily guarded eyes.

“And I'll tell you this as many times as it takes for you to hear me. Trust me, Sherlock. I know you, more than anyone. I know your beauty. Your kindness. Your generosity. Your passion. You pretend that you’re all logic and reason, Sherlock, but I see your heart and I can’t imagine how I could help but love it.”

Sherlock sighed and turned away. He hesitated for a moment and then walked out of the kitchen, but not before John saw that Sherlock’s eyes were now suspiciously glassy. Why was Sherlock running away? Did he go too far? He knew that Sherlock wasn’t generally comfortable with emotional displays, but he’d thought they’d gotten past that. He grabbed the cooling tea and followed into the living room, just as the detective was lowering a needle on the record player. There was a brief, rather harsh distorted instrumental introduction, and then a haunting voice began, 

We must play our lives like soldiers in the field  
The life is short  
I'm running faster all the time  
Strength and beauty destined to decay  
So cut the rose in full bloom  
'Til the fearless come and the act is done  
A love like blood  
A love like blood  
'Til the fearless come and the act is done  
A love like blood  
A love like blood

Without saying a word, Sherlock turned around and looked at John. He walked over and gently took the ill-fated mugs of tea, setting them on the table. He took a step back and started moving his hips, dancing at half-time to the music. Holding eye contact, he slowly began unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. John felt his cheeks growing warm as he watched Sherlock caress his hands down his chest with the seductive grace of Salome herself. With each button Sherlock was revealing an expanse of flesh that made John actually begin to salivate. He hadn’t ever really thought that the stripteases were sexy, but never had he seen anything like this performance, even by the most convincing professionals. By the time Sherlock had finished with his shirt and was reaching to unfasten his trousers, John was using every drop of his willpower to keep from reaching out and helping the process along. Given the way that Sherlock was looking at him, he was pretty sure that he’d be reprimanded-- that Sherlock was intent on torturing him for as long as possible. Which was just fine, except he seemed to be having difficulty standing up. Always one to find a practical solution to his problems, he backed up slowly and sank into his chair. Sherlock’s lips twitched; apparently, he was enjoying rendering John helpless. He left off removing his clothes and began to advance toward John, crawling up and straddling John’s lap by tucking his calves into the creases of the chair.

John lost the battle to keep his hands to himself. He unclenched his fists and began running his hands up Sherlock’s legs, slowly, mapping every tendon and muscle of the detective’s sinewy thighs as he contorted and writhed, somehow still dancing. Sherlock ground his hips down, encouraging John’s hands farther toward his hips, which John found he had absolutely no objection to. Groaning, he took John’s face in his hands, leaned down, and began feasting on the doctor’s mouth, drinking John’s kisses and moans as if they were ambrosia and he was dying of thirst. John thought that he could stay like this forever, being consumed by Sherlock until he ceased to be. Then he stopped thinking altogether.

Eventually Sherlock pulled back, still holding John’s face reverently but out of reach of his kisses. Maintaining heated eye contact, he curled his fingers and ran his nails back along John’s temples, carding through his short hair until long fingers were wrapped around the nape of John’s neck. Sherlock arched up, stretching his long torso as tall as he could while remaining planted in John’s lap, pulling John’s head to his abdomen when he reached his full height. John breathed deeply, drowning in scent and sensation, rubbing his cheek against the downy hair that he found peeking out of the unfastened trousers. Unable to help himself, John took the zipper in his teeth and pulled it down, finally getting to appreciate a part of Sherlock’s anatomy that had been haunting him day and night. He ran his hands up Sherlock’s hips and pulled the obstructing fabric down as far as he could manage with Sherlock still straddling his lap. He ran his nose up the side of Sherlock’s cock, memorizing the heady perfume and reveling in the sensation of Sherlock’s pulse beating through the dorsal vein, noting that it sped up considerably when he reached out with his tongue and licked. 

Sherlock was losing control. His precise movements were becoming erratic, and a sheen of sweat now coated his skin. John was giddy at being granted the rare sight of that brilliant and calculating brain giving itself over to the throes of passion. John smiled, his lips brushing against the silky skin of Sherlock’s rapidly engorging cock. Sherlock gasped and grabbed John by the back of his hair, yanking his head back and diving down and latching onto John’s neck. Which was nice. Very nice, in fact. But John’s back was starting to hurt and they were both still wearing too many clothes. He really wanted to tell Sherlock this, to suggest politely that maybe they should retire to a bedroom, but the words just wouldn’t come. He grunted in frustration and decided to take matters into his own hands, so to speak. He reached around, grabbed Sherlock by his arse, and pushed up off the chair, lifting Sherlock with him as he stood.

The detective wrapped his arms and legs tightly around John, leaning in close as he was hoisted into the air. He took advantage of his proximity to John’s ear by rumbling his approval at this turn of events, punctuating his grunts with nibbles and bites on John’s earlobe. John realized that there was no way he’d make it up the stairs and headed toward Sherlock’s room, crossing the distance in record time. 

As usual, Sherlock had his door closed but after some creative manoevring Sherlock managed to twist the handle without being dropped. John pushed his way through the door, throwing Sherlock down on the surprisingly tidy bed.

“I washed the sheets for you, John.”

“Who said romance is dead?” John replied as he tugged at the ankles of Sherlock’s trousers.

“I was under the impression that the romantic part was when we get to soil them,” Sherlock said, intently watching John make short work of his own clothes.

John laughed as he climbed up onto the bed. He ran his hands lightly over Sherlock’s shoulders and down his chest before pushing him down backward. He began working his way up Sherlock's impossibly long body by trailing light kisses over his legs, nibbling on prominent iliac crests, leaving love bites on each of his ribs, licking a stripe up his sternum, and eventually biting down on the carotid artery. John was naming each body part in his head as he went in an effort to keep himself from losing control and ending this before he got a chance to really enjoy it. They’d waited so long, and John was committed to savoring every moment. 

At last, in a reversal of their earlier position, John found himself straddling a prone and flushed Sherlock. He took the opportunity to exact some revenge for his own earlier torture and began rotating his hips in time to the music still drifting in from the parlor. Sherlock threw his head back when John ground down, giving John the opportunity to admire the expanse of neck that lay before him. He decided that probably he should leave a message for Drusilla. Just in case. He leaned down and bit and sucked, occasionally stopping to blow gently on the heated skin which, John was happy to learn, made Sherlock wail quite beautifully. 

Mine.

Mine. 

With the salt of Sherlock’s sweat and skin on his tongue, and the almost unbearable sensation of their erections sliding against one another, it was the only coherent thought in John’s mind. 

Given Sherlock’s writhing and pleading, it seemed he was enthusiastically in agreement.

“Please, John. Harder.”

Never one to let his lovers suffer, he gladly complied. As he bit down on the pulsating artery, he shifted their hips to stretch himself over the lanky man beneath him. He slotted their legs together and felt Sherlock shudder, voice quivering as he sighed John’s name. John continued biting his way up Sherlock’s neck to his jaw, then pulled off to stop and admire his work. 

Sherlock was moving his mouth as if to protest John’s withdrawal, but all he was managing were incoherent huffs and moans. But although he couldn’t form words, Sherlock was finding other ways to communicate exactly what he wanted. He encircled John’s head with one hand, pulling him back down insistently to his neck. With his other hand, he began trailing his fingers feather-lightly down John’s spine, dipping down the curve of his lumbar region, up the curve of his arse, and then more forcefully into the crevice. When he reached John’s entrance, he lingered, rubbing circles around the sensitive flesh. There was no way this was going to last as long as John had hoped. 

“Sherlock—” John choked out. “Lube.”

Sherlock let go of John’s head and reached under the pillow behind him, pulling out a bottle with a somewhat smug expression on his face. John said a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of sex for the detective’s foresight. Sherlock flipped the cap open with his thumb and John cried out at the loss of contact when Sherlock reached up to coat his fingers. John spread his legs a bit wider, rutting unabashedly against Sherlock’s hip in the process. Sherlock clicked the bottle closed, tossed it down next to them, and then resumed his earlier ministrations on John’s arsehole, now with more viscosity. Instead of resuming his hold on John’s head, which was now free to have latched firmly on one of the detective’s apparently very sensitive nipples, Sherlock began working him open with fingers from both hands. He was trapped by Sherlock’s arms, held solidly in place while long fingers delicately pressed in and pulled out, curled and crooked, teasing him mercilessly and playing him like a violin. It didn’t take very long at all before John was arching his back and moaning wantonly.

“Fuck. Fuck me already, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock ignored him, working his entrance wider, excruciatingly slowly, though Sherlock’s rock-hard and leaking cock betrayed his façade of composure. John was writhing and wordlessly trying to beg-- he’d lost language entirely at this point. He was drowning in sensation as Sherlock’s clever fingers tortured him with random, delicate brushes against his prostate. He was twisting his hips to thrust his aching cock against anything he could reach, trying desperately to get enough friction, chasing an orgasm that was just beyond his reach. And then Sherlock stopped his exploration of John’s arse, and John cried out at the emptiness that now filled him.  
He opened his eyes and looked pleadingly up at Sherlock, whose face was flushed and glistening, covered in a glaze of sweat, eyes completely dilated and unfocused. Sherlock reached back under the pillow and triumphantly produced a square of foil. He was trying desperately to open it with his greased fingers but he was taking too long for John's liking. John sat up and grabbed it out of his hands, tearing it open with his teeth. He leaned back and very slowly began rolling the condom down, enjoying the tortured look on the desperate man’s face. He reached over for the bottle of lube and began leisurely drizzling a line of cold slick up the detective’s searing cock, giving back a little of the exquisite torture he’d been suffering while buying himself a moment to regain some composure. 

Taking a deep breath, John moved himself up, sitting tall on his knees. He lined himself up as though to bear down on Sherlock, but at the last minute he shifted just so the shaft tucked in between his glutes instead of entering him. Sherlock screamed out in protest, then in lust as John raised and lowered his hips, squeezing his muscles so that they gripped Sherlock tightly. But it was torment for him as well. After only a couple of passes over his entrance, he couldn’t tease any more. He slid up, shifted forward, and as he gradually bore down onto Sherlock—finally-- he cried out at the fullness, the completeness. He tried to move slowly at first, giving himself time to adjust, but neither of them could hold back for long. 

John fell into a rhythm, sliding up and down with mounting intensity, rotating his hips at different angles with each pass to maximize sensation. Sherlock was keening, thrusting up to meet John each time. Just as John thought he’d reached the peak of corporeal pleasure, Sherlock reached out with still-slick hands and began stroking his cock in time with their increasingly erratic thrusts. 

It was too much sensation. John’s breath caught. His whole body was tingling, buzzing. He heard and felt the rush of blood leaving his head. He sank downward one more time, hitting exactly the right spot, and then screamed as his orgasm crashed over him, wave after wave of release pouring itself over Sherlock’s chest. His last thought as he flopped forward onto his own ocean of semen was that it was fortunate that Sherlock was coming too, because he had no more strength in his muscles to have continued fucking him until he’d had his release. 

They lay together, catching their breath and lazily caressing each other, too exhausted to speak. Eventually, John rolled carefully off Sherlock, whose eyes followed him contentedly as he left the room to dispose of the spent condom and get a flannel. He took great pleasure in teasing the detective’s sensitized chest with the rough cotton, taking longer than necessary to clean the evidence of their lovemaking. He was still exhausted, so even though he felt a vague stirring at Sherlock’s breathy reaction when he grazed his still-erect nipples, he knew they’d have to wait for another go. He tossed the flannel aside, not really caring where it landed. Gathering up the mussed bedsheets, he folded himself into Sherlock’s waiting embrace and tucked the bedding around them. He turned his head and kissed the parts of Sherlock that he could reach without moving too much until he began drifting off into sleep. 

Just as he was losing consciousness, Sherlock said quietly, “I once wished very much to become a vampire.”

John roused himself, knowing that Sherlock was opening his heart to him now and cherishing the intimacy. And something had been weighing on his mind since last night. He wasn’t completely convinced that the vamps were real, but it was obvious that Sherlock did, and that was almost enough for him to believe too.

“Drusilla was right. You deserve immortality.”

Sherlock sighed. “I know you believe that if I had it, I would use my powers for good. That I would be an avenging angel, a hero. But I never wanted it for altruistic purposes, John. I believed I was a monster, and I thought I deserved an eternity of hell. Being an atheist, eternity in this world was the closest I could imagine to it.”

“You’re not that person any more, Sherlock. And I don’t believe you ever were a monster. I think you were convinced of it by people who neither understood nor cared for you.”

“John. You know me. I care little for the emotions of others. I manipulate people into acting in my own selfish interests. I act without conscience or care for consequence. I may not be doing it for the acquisition of drugs or sex any longer, but what is the difference if I’m doing it for the acquisition of truth?”

“You’re working for the common good, Sherlock. You catch murderers and pedos and all sorts of bad guys. Your methods may be a little harsh, but the greater good…”

“Do you honestly believe in the greater good? That the ends justify the means? No, John, actions are what matter, and I am at least as monstrous as those who kill to feed. In fact, survival is more of a justifiable rationale than any motive I’ve ever had.”

John hesitated, hating that he needed to ask the next question. “Do you want to accept her offer?”

Sherlock was silent for a long time. John was beginning to get nervous. If he said yes, would John be able to let him go? Would this be all they had? 

“No, John. I no longer wish for living death.”

“Why, though? I mean, think of what you could do with forever. Your mind, Sherlock. Think of it. Think of everything you could do with all the time in the world to learn things, to study, to investigate. You could be one of the greatest thinkers of all time. When you die it is going to be a great loss to the world, and you have a chance to avoid that!”

“It wouldn’t be enough anymore.”

“Really, though?” John wasn’t sure why he was pressing the issue so strongly. It wasn’t like he wanted Sherlock to become a blood-sucking monster. But he needed to understand. Needed to know that when they went after the vampires tomorrow night that Sherlock wouldn’t give himself over to them. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to let him go, especially now. 

Sherlock shifted so that he could reach John’s lips, kissing him deeply before saying, “No, John. I seem to have recently found my humanity, and I’m not ready to lose it, even for all of the time in the world.”

“But—”

“John. I need you to hear me. I will not accept their offer. In addition to concerns of the restrictions of nocturnal living and the ethics of murder, the truth of the matter is that I could not bear to watch you grow old and die, only to live forever missing you.”

Tears were threatening to form in John’s eyes. Those were the words he didn’t know he needed to hear. Still, he needed to be practical. Greater good and all. 

“Sherlock, it’s not realistic to think that love lasts forever. Are you absolutely certain that it’s worth it? Trading a mere human life with me for actual eternity? What if—”

“No, John. Do not finish that thought. I refuse to allow you to sacrifice your decency. Your humanity. I would kill us both before I allowed you to turn into one of them. And since I can’t let you become a monster, and I can’t live an eternity without you, we shall just have to kill the vampires and live out our mundane, human lives solving crimes and having as much sex as possible until we are unable to do so any longer. Then we will die, hopefully in each other’s arms, and be buried somewhere to rot away. Now please stop fretting. I find myself unusually tired, for some reason, and you know how much you pressure me to sleep.” Sherlock smiled gently, pulling John into a tight embrace. John did not fall asleep quickly. There was too much to worry about. In a few short hours, they would have to leave this haven and face a threat that he wasn't even certain they could beat, even if Sherlock was sincerely uninterested in joining them. But his mind eventually stilled and he drifted off, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and the sound of his living, beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes! finally our boys stop being such idiots and work it out! our sexy song today is love like blood by killing joke. not super sultry, but i feel like it speaks for our lovers pretty well. 
> 
> stay tuned for one more chapter, the exciting conclusion to 'this cold heart never bleeds'. thanks for sticking with it, despite my rather haphazard uploading schedule. xo


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